Once past Soper’s, I spotted a dark silhouette in the back of the harbor—the big blue yacht I’d originally seen days ago in Charlotte Amalie.
We pulled up to the ferry dock. There was a ferryboat at the pier along with a few boats and some dinghies, but not a soul in sight. The Customs office was closed.
Once the Cigarette was tied up, we assembled on the dock.
“I’m gonna miss that boat.” Valentine laughed. “First time I driven one in twenty years.”
“Now what?” I said.
“Let’s go find Bomba.”
Bomba, the shack’s proprietor, was a recluse of a man but also a native, so hopefully he and Valentine were friends. Hell, they were probably relatives.
Valentine’s Crown Vic was on the street in front of the Customs office.
“Makes us look like cops,” Boom-Boom said. His teeth gleamed in the moonlight.
Valentine fired up the v-8 and popped it into gear. The tires chirped as we set off for the north shore.
CARS WERE PARKED WELL up the road before the Bomba Shack was even visible. Valentine parked at the end of the line.
“What’s the plan, Buck?”
“You point Baldy out, I talk to him.” My palm was sweaty on the door handle, and adrenalin pumped into my system like floodwaters through a New Orleans’ levy. Less than an hour before the concert was set to start.
From the back seat I heard a clip being ejected from a gun, then shoved back in.
Diego grinned. “I’m not so popular over here.”
Boom-Boom pulled a long black knife from inside his shirt.
“Me neither, brudda.”
Valentine craned over to look at me in the passenger seat.
“Fuck-up or not, Baldy is my nephew, Buck. Don’t nobody hurt him.”
“We need answers,” I said. “We’re out of time.”
My stomach rolled. Guns, knives, smuggling, kidnapping—I needed to raise my charter rates.
“Let’s go,” Diego said as he popped open the doors.
From inside the waterside party spot, a throbbing bass rattled my head. Several dozen people were packed around the bar, on the beach, in the street.
The full-moon party was in full swing.
“Bomba normally stays on the other side of the road,” Valentine said. “Let’s check with him first.”
It had been years since I’d been to the Bomba Shack. It hadn’t weathered well, but given the big crowd, its popularity had only increased. We crossed through the chain link fence, where Bomba’s old abandoned Cadillac sat engulfed in weeds. I nearly tripped over the sculpture of a crazed-looking dog painted in psychedelic hues and perched at the gate as if to ward off evil spirits—or to greet those embarking into the world of mushroom tea-tripping. Either way, the ceramic mutt sent a bad vibe dancing up my spine.
Just ahead, Valentine hugged a man slightly younger than himself but heavier, sitting in the shadows under a broad Tamarind tree. They spoke in hushed tones, and the old man, who I presumed to be Bomba, glanced at Diego. His eyes grew wide—then he spotted Boom-Boom and did a double-take. Valentine was talking, but it didn’t look like Bomba was listening. He nodded toward us and said something I couldn’t hear. After another moment of hushed conversation, Bomba nodded again and slipped back into the shadow of the Tamarind’s broad reach.
“Baldy’s here,” Valentine said. “Inside by the bar, buying tea for the ladies. Knew he would be.”
“Time to find out who been raining hell on us,” Diego said.
“I’ll get him,” I said.
“No, Buck, Baldy see you he’ll get trippy,” Boom-Boom said. “I know him and owe him some money, so I can get him outside, then we can talk.”
“What if he takes off?” I said.
Diego laughed. “Where to? You got beach in both directions, ’less he got another boat out there.”
My heart rate escalated along with the bass beat. After everything that had gone down so far I didn’t want to trust the success of this moment to Boom-Boom, but he did have a point. I glanced both ways up and down the street.
“Valentine, why don’t you go get the car. If we need to take him out of here, we will. Diego, you go down to the far side of the bar by the beach in case he takes off—”
“He ain’t going nowhere, Buck,” Boom-Boom said.
“I’ll get the car,” Valentine said. “Remember what I said about not hurting him, eh?” He left without looking back.
I rubbed my palms together. “All right, let’s do it.”
Boom-Boom walked toward the bar like Moses parting the Red sea. Locals who must have recognized him stepped back on either side of him. Tourists didn’t know who he was, but his size, bald head, and serious expression made them step back too. He disappeared inside. To my surprise Diego walked down the road like I’d asked, so I went around the other side of the bar toward the beach.
A commotion sounded from inside Bomba’s. A woman shrieked.
A blur shot out the side of the building—it was a man running up the beach.
I took off after him in a sprint. A group of women jumped as I passed. One of my boat shoes flew off—I stumbled but kicked the other up in the air and kept going.
Baldy wobbled as he ran, but he was still fast. I high-stepped it over the hard-packed sand with my fists pumping and quickly gained on him.
As I closed in he turned. Stopped, reached into his belt—
I leapt. He froze. I wrapped him around the chest like a linebacker and drove him down. Baldy squirmed as both of us rolled in the sand. His elbow caught my jaw.
High school wrestling moves still came as natural as flying the Beast. I spun behind him, twisted his shoulder down—
“Aaagghhh!”
Anger burst inside me, and within seconds Baldy’s shoulders were pinned beneath my knees.
I tried to catch my breath. Boom-Boom and Diego moved in.
“What you want with me!” Baldy choked out. He reeked of booze.
“Who…the fuck…are you working for!” I said.
“Can’t…breathe,” he said. “You on…my chest!”
I got off him and stood. Baldy sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees.
“This is fucked up, man, what the hell you guys want?”
“We need information, got it?” Boom-Boom said.
“About what, man? I ain’t done nothing against you guys! I ain’t crazy!”
His eyes were bloodshot. I looked right into them.
“That guy you grabbed on the beach in St. John a few days ago—”
“What the—whatchu talking ‘bout, man?”
“Don’t fuck around, Baldy!” Boom-Boom said. “Those mudda-fucking Russians moved in hard on our shit!”
Down on one knee, I leaned into to Baldy. He was shaking, his eyes darting back and forth from me to Boom-Boom to Diego.
“We know you picked up John Thedford on the beach in Cruz Bay. What did you do with him after that?”
“I don’t—man, I’m not—”
Diego leaned down and pressed his Kimber .45 into Baldy’s forehead.
“Sons of bitches killed Spice, now talk!”
A small wail escaped Baldy’s lips.
“All right all right, yeah, I picked him up, man, you know—but that was it. It was just a ride, I don’t know nothing—”
“Where’d you take him?” I said.
Baldy cleared his throat. A shiver rocked him.
“Some dudes, man, paid me cash—they found me at Marina Cay that day—then they met me between St. John and Tortola that night, man, that’s it.”
I took his shoulders in my hands, gripped them hard.
“What do you mean, that’s it? What’s it?”
“They gave me the money and I gave them the dude—he was drunk and didn’t know shit, thought I was his ride or something—”
“Who were the people that hired you?”
“Fuck man, I don’t know—”
Diego pressed his
gun against Baldy’s head.
“Locals? White? Black?”
“White dudes, man, funny accents and shit. Paid me cash, in Euros—”
“Were they Russian accents?” I still had him by the shoulders. “What kind of boat were they in?”
“I don’t know, man, serious—the boat?” His eyes rolled. “Blue, sleek little bitch. Fancy, you know? Nice wood and shit—”
I shook Baldy’s shoulders and he refocused on my face.
“How big was the boat?” I said. “Did it have a name?”
“Blue boat…pretty, man. Name?” He paused. “Ah, yeah, some kind of foreign name I think, like that soda drink, I don’t know—”
I shook him again. “What was the name?”
“I’m not—ah, what was it? Something like that soda—Not Pepsi, you know? Like Shasta, or something—”
Shasta? Why does that—
A bolt of lighting erupted inside my head and I leapt to my feet.
“Shashka!”
Baldy held a hand up in front of his face, the moon over my shoulder all but blinding him as he looked up at me.
“Yeah, that’s it, man.”
I rubbed my hands over my face. Several days of beard dug into my palms. I pictured the speedboat leaving Jost Van Dyke when Valentine arrived, the fat man looking back toward shore, and finally realized who it was. The boat he was on was the same color as the Shaska, too.
“You figure something out?” Boom-Boom said.
“Afraid so,” I said.
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Diego said.
I spit sand from my mouth.
“Because it’s worse than I thought.”
Viktor Galey.
BACK IN VALENTINE’S CROWN VICTORIA, we raced toward the West End ferry dock. The air was thick, the air conditioning not much help.
“That big-ass boat?” Boom-Boom said.
“It’s called a yacht, young man,” Valentine said. “Big difference.”
My mind bounced back and forth as I pondered whether I should call in the Royal Virgin Island’s Police or Booth. I decided against it. I knew my favorite FBI agent had little or no pull in these islands, and I didn’t trust Bramble. There was maybe thirty minutes before the concert was scheduled to start.
Shashka. Even sounded Russian. I checked Crystal’s cell phone—a text from Harry Greenbaum: “Eat shit has no direct translation, but the spelling you gave me, when checked phonetically, sounds close to ischezat in Russian, which means ‘to disappear.’ Does that help?”
Unfortunately it did.
“I’m used to taking risks, man, but this is crazy,” Diego said.
“Gotta be a bunch of guns on there,” Boom-Boom said, “we’ll need to be super stealth. Maybe they got some of our men hostage too.”
Diego shook his head. “Ain’t nothing left to lose at this point.”
“We’ll have the element of surprise,” I said.
“You some kind of James Bond or something, brudda?”
I shook my head. “Just an adoptee trying to help these people change the world.”
Diego’s grimace-smile bent his lips. “I just want to kill some Russkies.”
We drove in silence down the dark, winding road. As we began the descent from the hillside toward West End, I again reached for the nearly dead cell phone.
“Buck, that you?” Ray said.
“Things about to get started there?”
“Pretty soon. It’s insane.”
“We have a pretty good idea where John Thedford’s being held, if he’s still alive.”
Silence on the other side of the phone made me check the battery. A red light blinked.
“Ray, you still there?”
“Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“How’s Crystal?”
“Haven’t seen her—she’s locked up in Scarlet’s room. Your friend Special Agent Booth’s running around like Mother Hen, forcing himself on the talent with promises to protect them. He’ll be glad to get your news—”
“Keep him out of it.”
Again the silence.
“I need you and Lenny to be ready to head this way in the Beast—”
“What about the contraband?”
“Forget that!” I paused and looked at the others in the car, all of whom were staring at me. “Listen, I don’t know what we’re going to do yet, but we’re going to find some way to get on that boat and rescue Thedford.”
“And fuck up some Russians,” Boom-Boom said.
“What boat?” Ray said.
“The big blue yacht that’s been back and forth between St. Thomas and Tortola all week. My guess is it’s owned by Viktor Galey, who must be connected to the cartel that started the gang war—”
“Russian cartel?” His voice climbed a couple octaves. “You and what army?”
I glanced back at my cohorts. “Suicide Squad, Virgin Islands division.”
Diego rolled his eyes.
I explained to Ray where the yacht was, told him to grab Lenny and anyone they could rally who could get there quick aside from Booth and the local police.
“We’ll need the help.”
“You’re crazy, Buck!”
“So I’ve been told—” The phone emitted a series of quick beeps. “Ray? The battery’s dying—”
Silence.
“Ray?”
Dead.
I asked Valentine for his charger but it didn’t fit Crystal’s phone.
“So what makes you so sure they on that yacht, man?” Diego said.
I told them about seeing the speedboat leaving Jost Van Dyke long before the start of the concert with Viktor Galey on board, a billionaire industrialist and a member of Crystal’s board.
“I’m not sure of his nationality, but he had an accent. And that blue color? I’m sure it matched. At least, I’m gambling on it.”
“We’re gambling on it,” Diego said.
“And if not, we crap out,” Boom-Boom said.
“Here’s the deal,” Diego said. “Any weapons worth grabbing on that boat, I get ‘em—”
“We get ‘em, brudda!” Boom-Boom said.
“The only thing we’re getting off that yacht is John Thedford, and we’ll be damned lucky if we get that far,” I said. “Boat that big will have a big crew.”
Now down near the water, I could see the Customs building up ahead. Valentine parked the Crown Vic and we piled out. I checked my watch: nearly ten o’clock. It had been over five hours since the finger arrived in a hamburger carton on Jost Van Dyke. Urgency built up inside me like a bicycle tire pumped to its breaking point.
“You guys wait here,” I said. “I’m going to look around.”
The moon provided plenty of light. But if there was a lookout on the yacht, this was one of the places they’d be watching, so I crept around the building. The ferryboat and the red Cigarette were there, a few pleasure craft, dinghies—what’s that? Two down was a 30-foot cabin cruiser with a stripe on its hull, a flag billowing in the light breeze, and VISAR painted on the wheelhouse. Virgin Islands Search and Rescue.
A glance in both directions—what did I expect? Nobody’s here but Reilly’s Renegades.
I climbed over the gunwale. There were no keys in the ignition and the cabin was locked. Damn. There were a couple unlocked drawers in the cockpit. Inside were charts, a radio, and binoculars. I scanned the yacht end to end with the binoculars. Low light on the rear deck—red light. It would allow those on board to see out while making it hard for anyone to see on board.
The only person I could spot was on the fantail, holding what looked like a machine pistol.
“THE HELL TOOK YOU so long?” Diego said.
“See anything?” Valentine said.
“There are dinghies with motors and oars.”
“What’s wrong with that speedboat we came here on?” Diego said.
“Too risky,” I said. “They’d recognize it from when Baldy dropped Thedford.”
“What can I do?” Valentine said.
I handed him the binoculars.
“Keep an eye out. If you lose us, just watch the back end of the yacht. If you see anything happen or hear shooting, call in the cavalry.”
“What cavalry?” he said.
“Ray, Lenny, the Virgin Islands police—here, let me give you this one too.” He entered the numbers I recited into his phone’s contact list.
“What’s the name?” he said.
“T. Edward Booth. Special Agent in Charge of Florida and the Caribbean Basin for the FBI—”
“What the fuck?” Diego said. “You got his number memorized, man?”
“Long story, trust me—”
“I don’t trust nobody—why you think I’m still alive?”
I drew in a long slow breath. My recon of the yacht’s silhouette had also revealed the shape of a helicopter—the same one that buzzed me and Crystal yesterday in Cruz Bay. If we were detected, our getaway would be… tough.
Boom-Boom lit a blunt, and ganja smoke burned my eyes.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We walked down the dock toward a dinghy. My idea for a cover, if questioned, was that we were sailors heading back to our boat. There was one near the Shaska that was dark.
Diego had his Kimber .45 in hand. That and Boom-Boom’s knife were our only weapons.
“Let’s roll,” Boom-Boom said.
I pulled the handle on the engine and it fired right up. Boom-Boom untied us and we idled out into the black abyss of the harbor.
“If it looks hopeless we won’t try it,” I said.
“Shut up and drive,” Diego said.
I turned my eyes toward the ship. The moon lit the harbor with a wide, brilliant silver splash across the black water.
The smell of gasoline made me sit up straight.
I glanced around and hoped it was in the water—no, a thin spray of gas was spewing from the fuel line where it connected to the engine and had made a puddle in the bottom of the dinghy by the transom.
Shit.
3 Crystal Blue Page 21
