In the late 80s, nearly 20 acres were bulldozed and converted into a horse farm. Horse breeding had become a viable industry in central Florida. Over time, the farm had been the birthplace and eventual retirement home to three Kentucky Derby winners, one Belmont champion, and two that fell short of the Triple Crown within the last stretch of track. The stud fees were tremendous, and the Haynes horse farm produced several championship-bound colts.
Joe enjoyed the seclusion. There were no cell towers in the region, leaving most cell phones useless; he added satellite internet after remodeling the home. Caleb, the farm manager, and his wife, Janet, maintained the property for Joe. He found them devoted to him after procuring a pardon for their son, a 23-year-old serving a sentence for manslaughter.
Janet stepped out onto the porch carrying a pot of coffee.
“Refill?” she asked demurely.
Joe lifted his cup. “Thank you, Janet.”
She gave him a nod as she poured the coffee into his porcelain cup.
“I would love one of your waffles,” Joe commented to the woman.
“I have some bacon in there too,” she stated. “If you’d like a slice.”
“Is it fresh?”
“Caleb picked it up from Marvin on the other side of the lake last week.”
Joe nodded as he sipped from his cup. The woman moved off the porch in a slow glide. The birds pulled his attention back to them. At the other end of a row of trees, an animal moved through the grove. A dog, Joe thought. Maybe one of the neighbors’. The dog would have had to come quite a way. The closest house was on the other side of the swamp. There was no easy way for a dog to travel through the swamp. More than a few canine and feline skeletons were found along the banks–domestic pets that wandered too close to the edge only to be met by a hungry alligator lying in wait.
The front door opened. Blake stepped onto the porch. He stretched his back with a groan before staring off to the orange trees.
“Tell Janet to bring you some coffee,” Joe ordered.
“She saw me,” Blake stated as he pulled out the other chair at the wrought iron table.
“How is our guest?” Joe questioned.
“He’s alive. Stubborn.”
Joe snarled into his cup. “The bastard is that. What about the girl?”
The door opened. Janet swept across the porch and set a plate in front of Joe. Next to the plate was a jar of homemade orange syrup.
“I’ll be right back with your coffee, Blake,” she told the other man.
“Thank you,” he replied as she left the two men to their business.
Blake continued, “We know who owns the Tartan. Guy named Chase Gordon. Walter was certain that the boat was anchored about a mile from Porter’s boat. I guess the girl might have been with him, or he found her.”
“He must have her,” Joe mused.
Janet came out onto the porch again, deposited a cup of coffee in front of Blake, and vanished again.
“We have people in every port on the lookout. As of yesterday, I haven’t heard anything,” Blake explained as he took a drink. “His boat is registered to some town in Arkansas. That’s his permanent address. Although, our guy at the IRS got back to me yesterday. His W2 for last year was from a Tilly Inn in West Palm Beach.”
“Send someone over there. Maybe there’s someone there who will know where to find him.”
Blake nodded.
“What’s his deal?” Joe asked.
“No idea. According to his tax records, he doesn’t have that much money. At least he doesn’t make that much at his job.”
Joe interjected, “Maybe he is working with Porter? Or he just saw an opportunity?”
Blake didn’t answer. He learned quickly that Joe was confident that he was the smartest person in the room. The best way to stay on his good side was for Joe to keep that opinion. Even if someone had a better idea, somehow Joe twisted it to be his own.
“I’ll send Walter over there,” Blake informed him.
“Be sure he shows a little more restraint,” Joe demanded. “The kid was over the top. We don’t need a trail of bodies to attract too much attention.”
Blake dropped his head. “That was Garrett. He got a little zealous. Said he didn’t want the kid to call the cops.”
Joe shook his head in disbelief. “Right, because a missing kid never draws attention.”
Blake nodded. “It won’t happen again.” Not with Garrett still missing, he thought.
“There wasn’t a kidnapping reported to the RBDF,” Joe stated. “What about with any American authorities?”
“Nothing with the Coast Guard yet.”
“What’s this Gordon’s game?”
Blake shrugged. “Maybe he’s waiting.”
Joe leaned back in his chair and watched the remaining wisps of fog dissipate in the sun.
“Wallace King called,” Blake remarked.
“Damn fool.” Joe practically slammed his cup down. “What does he want? It better not be a change of heart. I’m getting ulcers from this damned thing.”
“He wants to make sure everything is on schedule.”
“Idiot,” Joe growled. “He needs to sit back, keep his mouth shut, and wait. If he calls again, you explain to him that if he wants to interfere in my business, I’ll just change the focus to him.”
Blake stuttered, “That won’t help us.” He bit his lip, realizing he was talking out of turn.
“Doesn’t matter!” Joe snapped, his anger tempered. “I don’t intend for some fool to get too excited and send us all to jail.”
Blake nodded. There was no danger of Joe going to jail. The man owned enough of the Justice Department to avoid even a hint of misdeeds. He just didn’t like being told how to do something. Wallace King didn’t realize that he was now the property of Joe Loggins. Property doesn’t have an opinion. It was just a tool for Joe to get what he wanted. If it didn’t work, Joe would throw it away, or in this case, Wallace King might find himself the victim of some terrible accident.
“Get the money wired to Atlanta. Run it through King’s company. It might not be clean, but at least it’ll point at that idiot.”
“You got it,” Blake responded.
“This shit doesn’t seem worth it,” Joe mumbled. “Find this girl. I want Porter to watch me cut her into bits and feed her to the alligators.”
“He won’t tell us where the money is,” Blake pointed out, “if we hurt the girl.”
“At this point, I have a termite infestation. I don’t care about saving the building; I just want to kill all the termites.”
Blake sat quietly.
“Find this Gordon fellow. He should know where the girl is. He’s just another obstacle. I want him removed permanently.”
14
The room took on a more depressing aura the next morning. The sunlight squeezing through the crack between the two thick curtains shone brightly on the bottle of Jack Daniels like it was center stage. The three inches of whiskey at the bottom appeared to be a great deal shallower than I recalled the night before. The sight shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. After the second can of Pepsi, the Tennessee whiskey went down straight as I tried to push the image engraved in my head away long enough to sleep.
Eventually, it worked. For a bit. Three and a half hours after I finally closed my eyes I came awake. A bowling alley outside my door, broke my sleep. Loud accented Spanish that I couldn’t understand was being shouted back and forth. My poor language skills could still distinguish them as orders. Each burst initiated a rattling of metal combined with something slamming shut.
Rolling off the bed, I let my feet find the ragged carpet floor. Jerking the motel door open, I glared at four men loading tools and paint cans into a 10-year-old green and red Dodge Ram. The four men stopped and stared at me, hanging onto the side of the door frame.
“What the hell?” I blurted out.
“Lo siento,” someone responded.
“Don’t be sorry,” I
snapped. “Just be quiet!”
Slamming the door, I stumbled to the bathroom. The workmen quieted down some, but the damage was done.
The digital clock read “5:45.”
A few minutes later, an engine started. The racket stopped. Dropping back on the bed, I stared at the ceiling. Maybe I could grab another hour.
The ceiling stared back. The Jack Daniels had lost its effect, and instead, I felt the constricted blood vessels throughout my body as my heart tried to push blood through them.
It was all too late. I might as well find some coffee.
After finding J.J. at the Porter’s house, my brain was bouncing around like it was dancing wildly around a fire. I didn’t expect to find Porter at the house. It was the only thing I knew. Maybe, I hoped I would find a note plainly telling me what I was supposed to do with Lily Porter. I didn’t even have time to look.
You had time. Just didn’t have the stomach, Chase.
Instead, you hid out in a shitty hotel and drank yourself into oblivion.
And it wasn’t the only thing you know, Gordon.
The cigarette boat was registered to FC Investments, based in Tampa.
This wasn’t going to be an overnight trip. I didn’t have a change of clothes. I was smart enough to strip my shirt off before I fell asleep. A five-minute shower rinsed the sweaty residue from my body. Unfortunately, this half-star establishment didn’t offer soap.
Leaving the key in the door, I drove downtown.
FC Investments was located in the Pickford Building, one of the skyscrapers that made up the skyline. According to the directory in the lobby, it was located in 807.
The elevator opened on the eighth floor and sometime in the mid-90s. The rank smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the wallpaper despite the posted signs stating smoking wasn’t allowed. The commercial-grade carpet had been worn down the center of the hallway, leaving a few spots where the concrete floor peaked through the ragged holes. A yellow janitor cart was parked in the alcove next to a restroom. The mop bucket looked like it was filled a day or two ago. The sour smell of mildew around the cart might have masked the cigarette smell. Or maybe it just mixed together to create a whole new odor.
807 was a small office with a single desk where a woman in her 30s stared at the computer screen. It sounded like a television show, but she clicked the mouse, silencing the speakers.
“May I help you?” she asked, looking up. Her face looked speculative as she examined me.
There were two metal-framed chairs against the wall facing her desk with a plastic ficus tree situated between them. The window behind the woman offered a view of Tampa Bay. Boats littered the water.
“Is this FC Investments?” I blinked at her. My eyes cut over to a door to my right that she seemed to be guarding.
“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?” She was trying to fit me in a box. My shorts and fishing shirt didn’t fit into any kind of investment business she could imagine.
“I’m in the market to make some investments,” I lied. “What kind of investing do you do?”
Her eyes squinted at me for a second. “We deal in real estate. We purchase and rehab apartment buildings.”
I turned slowly to stare at the closed door for two or three seconds.
“Does Travis Porter still work here?” I asked, giving her my full attention again. “We met at a party. He said he could help me put my money to work.”
Her face twisted in confusion. “We don’t have anyone here by that name.”
She continued, “But maybe he used to work here. How about I get one of the other guys to talk to you?”
“That would be nice,” I smiled.
She picked up the phone and punched two numbers. “Carl, there’s a gentleman here interested in talking to someone about making some investments. He said he was referred by Travis Porter.”
Carl said something to her, and she hung up.
“He’ll be out in just a minute.”
“You have a nice view,” I commented.
She made a noise.
“How long have you worked here?” I asked genially.
“Two years.”
The forbidden door opened. A stout man a few years younger than me came through. He was former military. I could smell it on him. The hair, the hands, nearly everything said the man spent several years in uniform. He wore an expensive and neatly pressed suit.
“Hello.” His voice was gruff and firm. His right hand extended to me. “My name’s Carl.”
His grip was intended to express that he wasn’t one to put up with any funny business. His eyes widened just a fraction when I returned the grasp with my own squeeze.
“I was hoping to talk to you about making some investments.”
He shook his head slowly. “I think you are misinformed. We don’t do that here. We make the investments ourselves and manage them.”
“Oh,” I feigned surprise. “I guess I was.”
“Becky said you knew Travis?” His eyes darted to the woman behind the desk.
“Yes, I thought he worked here.”
Carl shook his head again. “Travis hasn’t worked here in a year or so.”
I looked over at Becky before turning back to Carl.
“That’s odd,” I commented.
“How did you know Travis?”
I glanced back at Becky. “I thought you didn’t know Travis?”
A look of confusion passed over her. “I didn’t,” she explained.
Carl stared at me.
“Becky, you said you have been here two years. If Travis was here a year ago, you should know him.”
“I… uh…” she started.
Carl’s hand went under his jacket. I spotted the bulge as soon as he came out the door. Before he had the grip of the pistol clear of his lapel, I hit him in the throat with a fast snap. The second one caught him on the nose. I chopped down and sent the gun to the floor. My foot caught it and kicked it behind the plastic ficus.
Carl recovered and charged me. He outweighed me by 50 pounds; I thought I was hit by a bus as he drove me into the wall. My knee popped up and caught him in the groin. He grunted and stepped back. With both arms, I shoved him back. He tripped over his own feet and knocked Becky’s computer off her desk.
Deciding to retreat, I ran through the door into the hallway. Carl had a level or two on pure mass. Defending myself in a confined space like the office gave him the advantage. Surprise was my weapon, and I’d already blown that.
Behind me, Carl’s feet pounded the worn carpet. The end of the hall held a large picture floor to ceiling window that overlooked downtown Tampa.
A quick look over my shoulder told me he was barreling down the hall. And he picked his gun back up.
I took a slide past the janitor cart as if I was making a last-ditch effort for home base. The hallway boomed as he fired at me. A crack resounded. Rolling to my feet in the alcove, I turned and pushed my foot against the yellow sour-smelling cart and shoved it into Carl’s path. He raised the barrel to fire again when he had to side-step the cart and sloshing mop water.
My hand grabbed the mop handle as the cart rolled toward Carl. I drove the mop head forward like a spear into the man’s face; he swatted the rank mop with his gun hand. I slammed the mop onto his arm before twisting it back into his face. Jabbing at him, I caught him in the chest and shoved him back.
His gun hand fell. The mop handle spun in my hand as my right foot stepped behind my left, turning me in one swift move. The wet and slimy mop strings slapped my forearm as the other end of the mop struck Carl’s head.
He dropped the gun again, but his eyes flared in anger. The wall of muscle lunged at me. Without proper footing, I was tossed in the air as Carl sacked me. He rebounded at me with a hammer fist, driving toward my face. The mop handle came up, blocking the blow and cracking in two pieces. His fist still hit me, but without the deadly force he mustered.
The mop handle was now the length of a baton, and I swung it int
o his head. Carl didn’t falter. His fist caught me on the jaw. The left was following, but I jerked to the right and swung my stick. The splintered end ripped across his face like talons.
Scrambling to my feet, I saw the man enraged. A sliver of wood about two inches long protruded from the corner of his left eye. Carl rose to his feet as if the chunk of wood sticking out of his eye was little more than an inconvenience. He charged at me again. This time, every muscle in his body was driven by rage.
For an instant, I was in a vacuum. Every molecule of air expelled from my lungs. My feet came off the ground. When my back hit the ground, I thought Carl was going to knock me through the seventh floor. His hands moved like a jackhammer pounding into me. My fists rose up to cover my face. Failure. I blocked maybe one in four hits.
Desperately, my left hand clawed at him. The tip of my finger scraped the wood. I shoved the splinter of wood in deeper.
Carl arched back and howled. I rolled out from under him and crawled to my feet.
He screamed something and came at me again. A surreal face with tears of blood oozing from the splinter in his eye. I was able to plant my feet. As he barreled over me, I rolled under him. My hand catching his forearm. My right foot swooped into his shin.
Carl stumbled, or maybe I propelled him into the spider-webbed window with one clean hole almost level with my head. The window exploded, raining half-inch pieces of tempered glass eight stories below. A second later a thud echoed between the buildings. I stumbled back against the wall and felt my body slide to the floor. Becky stood in the hallway in front of 807, staring with a gaping mouth at the empty window.
15
My head leaned against the yellow-tinted wallpaper. Chunks of glass burrowed into the backside of my legs. I didn’t care. Becky grabbed a bag and ran out of the office. The elevator ding echoed through the empty halls. A breeze blew through the gaping hole in the building.
Decision time, Chase. Stay or run.
The only thing running through my mind was the Clash lyrics.
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