by C J Schnier
“That’s absurd! You can’t believe this nonsense!” Acosta cried in dismay.
“Let him speak,” the man in the gray suit said.
“You must have been quite surprised when he reached out to you after escaping us. You were probably even more surprised when Kelly told you that we had managed to get your two million dollars. You were the only person who knew where we were going to be. Yet, Alonzo attacked us less than a day after we arrived. It had to be you that told him.”
“Preposterous,” he said, trying to rise from his seat. But his denouncement fell on deaf ears. The two grunts positioned themselves behind him and placed a hand on each shoulder, keeping him seated in his chair.
“With us dead, you would get your increased profits, and the cool extra two million in cash would just be a well-earned bonus. You could tell the cartel that we never got the money, keep it, and begin receiving Santiago’s share of the profits. But Alonzo failed. When you didn’t hear back from him, you called Kelly’s phone. Putting the pieces together you arranged this meeting, but you couldn’t have counted on me figuring this all out. You killed an amazing woman. A woman that was of your own blood. You went against the cartel’s rules, against your own family, and for what? Greed? Power? There is nothing I would love more than to rip your throat out and watch you gasp for breath as you died in front of me.”
Raul Acosta struggled then, but the two guards held him fast.
“He’s lying!” Acosta shouted desperately.
“Silence!” hissed the man in the gray suit. “Mr. Hawkins. Do you have any way to prove what you say?”
“Just call the sheriff’s department. There should be two new bodies in the morgue. Kelly, shot in the chest, and an unknown Hispanic male that either died by suffocation or drowning.”
“I see. We will look into it, and we will deal with Mr. Acosta’s treachery. We have our money, you are free to go,” said the gray-suited man.
Acosta stared at me, dumbfounded and panicked. The fear in his eyes was the sweetest revenge I could have hoped for. I raised my glass of scotch, gave him a quick salute, and fired back the last sip.
“Y'all can pay for the drink right?” I asked, giving Acosta a wink.
Walking out into the street and through the crowded market, I refused to look back, choosing instead to savor the look of terror I had left on Raul Acosta’s face.
Epilogue
“How are you holding up Chase? These regulars aren’t running you ragged yet are they?” Sarah asked as I made a Tom Collins for one of the restaurant’s patrons.
“Not a chance of that,” I said, garnishing the drink and placing it on her serving tray.
“Hey did you hear that story about the guy they found murdered in his hotel room on King Street?”
“No, what happened?” I asked.
“Nobody knows. Some rich businessman from South Florida. He had a funny name. What was it? Raul Acosta or something like that. The news said it was fierce and brutal. Apparently, they cut off his fingers and his tongue before they cut open his stomach. There was blood everywhere, that room won’t be able to be rented for months.”
“Raul Acosta? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was it. Why?”
“It’s nothing. I knew some Acostas from South Florida once. Let’s just say I’m not surprised something like that happened to one of them. They are some bad people,” I said. “Oh, on a lighter note, I want to thank you again for giving me this job Sarah. Keeping busy helps.”
“Well we couldn’t let you mope around the marina anymore now could we,” she said as she left to deliver her drinks.
Kelly’s death had been devastating, but after a couple of weeks, Jim and Sarah had taken pity on me. They had decided that the best cure for my blues was good old-fashioned hard work, so they hired me to tend bar five nights a week. I was grateful for the distraction and for the income. With Kelly gone, hurricane season in full swing, and Florida rebuilding itself, I was stuck here, both physically and mentally.
Irma had devastated Florida. Costing at least $50 billion in damage to that one state alone, surpassing even Hurricane Andrew’s previous record. At least another 50 billion in losses were reported from the islands and elsewhere. Her path of destruction, left several islands barren, parts of Florida gutted, and caused significant flooding across North Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina.
I rode out the rains and floods aboard Paramour, happy to have a home that floats when so many others took damage from the rising waters. We suffered no real damage and life around the marina was back to normal soon after.
Two weeks had gone by after paying off the cartel, and I had heard nothing. No hired killers had come after me, no phone calls or threatening letters. It looked like I might finally be free of the drug business.
Kelly’s body had been cremated once the police investigation had concluded. Someone had picked up her ashes on behalf of her father who was still awaiting trial for his own crimes.
I was never charged with any crime in the investigation of Alonzo’s death. South Carolina was a strong Stand Your Ground state, and I could not be prosecuted for using deadly force to defend myself. He was also found to be wanted for questioning in connection with several Florida murders. I was told that the district attorney laughed at the thought of trying to prosecute me.
I had tracked down Andy to his hurricane hole in Florida. He was staying at a small marina and RV park in Yankeetown somewhere up the Withlacoochee River. Protected by the undeveloped wilderness surrounding the river, he had survived Irma without any damage. He was devastated to hear about Kelly, but whole-heartedly approved of how I had handled my vengeance. He promised to come visit if he got a chance.
“I need a Jack and Coke and two bottles of Bud Light,” Sarah said coming back to the bar.
It was a slow day, only two people at the bar and a few tables. I heard the door open when I turned to grab the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Thankful for another customer I looked up as I poured coke into the glass. A man in his mid-thirties, wearing faded blue jeans and a red Nautica ball cap saddled up to the bar.
“Holy shit,” I said in amazement. “Will! Is that you?”
The man stopped, looked at me and a huge smile broke out across his face.
“Chase? What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Dodging hurricanes,” I replied, “what about you?”
“I drove up to Hilton Head to check on my grandfather’s property. Man, that whole place took some serious damage. I saw a few cheap boats for sale in this area and thought I’d come to check them out.”
“No shit? Do me a favor and hang on a second, I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going, Chase? I still need those two beers,” Sarah called after me as I turned and headed for the store-room.
“I’ll get them in a second. We’re going to need more Miller Lite!”
Also By
If you haven’t already, please check out the previous book in this series, Under a Smuggler’s Sky.
About the Author
CJ Schnier currently lives in St. Petersburg, Florida aboard his wooden masted ketch Paramour. When not writing, CJ delivers private yachts from location to location throughout the U.S. and the Caribbean. He also runs his own yacht services and maintenance company with his wife, Melissa. Born in Cocoa Beach, Florida, he was raised in the landlocked but history-rich town of Camden, South Carolina. CJ moved back to Florida after graduating high school and has spent his entire adult life on the water. Attending Eckerd College, he was a member of their maritime Search and Rescue team (EC-SAR) where he responded to over 250 cases. After school he worked as a merchant mariner on inland towboats, moving fuels and petroleum products throughout the United States. He has an almost obsessive love of the water and the sea.
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