The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1)

by Scott Corlett

  “And here I thought you were just another handsome face. That’s exactly what I had in mind: you do that, while Eric and I visit the recovered craft.” Quick threw her pack into the red Jeep.

  “I’m happy to drive—,” Hunt started to offer.

  The cranking starter and grinding transmission answered. Hunt scrambled around and jumped onto his seat, as the Jeep’s rear tires spun, spraying gravel and inciting a verbatim replay of the British-accented curses that Quick had heard the prior night while chasing the fleeing thief. She waved at the offended tourists.

  Then with one hand, she spun the steering wheel. And with her other, Sam Quick rammed the shift lever into first gear. “I’ll drive.”

  – 15 –

  Wednesday, 11 July

  Fuencaliente, Island of La Palma

  The wet aroma of freshly landed seaweed and spilled diesel crawled into their noses and lay down to stay. Beside Sam Quick and Eric Hunt, LANDFALL lay beached with its keel cutting into the black volcanic sand like a plow spreading fertile soil. Beyond the boat, a tan bluff walled off the beach. Terraced farms rose from atop the escarpment as if they were the slivered edges of a piece of green shale. Above the farms, the mountain sharply steepened into La Cumbre Vieja, the island’s volcanic backbone.

  The scientists climbed aboard the craft and started forward, their legs cocked to accommodate the deck’s slope. They had almost reached the wheel when a voice stopped them.

  “Ah, you must be Dr. Quick.”

  Quick and Hunt turned to find a man’s upper half gazing up at them.

  The speaker finished climbing the narrow stairs leading below and clambered onto the deck. He sported a closely shaven head and dark beard, and a compact build was evident beneath a green jumpsuit of La Guardia Civil del Mar. “Inspector Reyes alerted me to your imminent arrival. I’m Officer Alonso.”

  Quick introduced herself and Hunt.

  “I suppose I could guess the Eric part,” Alonso said, nodding at Hunt’s T-shirt, which read, “iEric.”

  “Has LANDFALL revealed anything regarding our colleague, Kalia Slater?” Quick asked.

  “Nothing specific at this point regarding Ms. Slater,” Alonso replied. “But what we are looking at is a botched strip-and-sink job. First they stripped LANDFALL of everything that was not bolted down. Then they attempted to scuttle the craft. But as you see, the boat merely capsized rather than sank—”

  “And who were ‘they,’” Quick interrupted.

  “Almost certainly drug runners.”

  Quick glanced at Hunt.

  Alonso continued, “Whenever these elements believe a transport is compromised, they sink the boat or seaplane in deep water. Usually after sending the junior crewmembers to first scout the ocean floor, if you know what I mean.”

  Quick pointed at the control panel. “This display is labeled ‘UHF Penetrating Sonar.’”

  “Yes, LANDFALL was undoubtedly once someone’s personal watercraft, until it was stolen and put to nefarious use. Perhaps the boat’s rightful owners enjoyed searching for buried treasure or sunken ships—”

  A mobile clipped to Alonso’s belt rang. The officer grabbed it. “¿Sí? Sí, Inspector Reyes …”

  Quick whispered to Hunt, “UHF sonar is what my colleagues use to scan for undersea geologic formations, such as earthquake faults, hydrocarbon deposits, or mineral beds.”

  The phone clapped shut. “That was Inspector Reyes. Last week, a harbormaster on Tenerife reported LANDFALL stolen. As you might know, Tenerife is another of our Canary Islands, located approximately sixty miles to the east. The boat is registered to a firm based in Madrid. The harbormaster said the company representative seemed oddly unconcerned by the craft’s loss and said only that the insurance people would be in touch shortly.”

  Quick nodded. “Do you know anything more about the boat’s owner?”

  “Yes, the company is known here on the island, possessing many plantations and land tracts on La Palma’s western half. In fact”—Alonso’s arm raised, and his finger pointed directly at the summit of La Cumbre Vieja—“several years ago, they tried purchasing La Garganta del Diablo. But they were unable to surmount the bureaucratic red tape for securing the environmental permits.” Alonso smiled. “In Spain, we have an abundance of both bureaucrats and red tape … Dr. Quick? Dr. Quick?”

  Hunt turned and followed Alonso’s gaze, toward the dark hair disappearing below the boat’s side, as Quick’s voice called out, “I know a lovely paella restaurant on Calle de la Reina—”

  A large wave slammed the shore. As the water’s crash receded, Hunt and Alonso heard the end of Sam Quick’s sentence: “In Madrid.”

  – 16 –

  Wednesday, 11 July

  Buffalo, New York

  The black sedan violently shuddered as its clutch was released before the engine had fully died. Doors swung open; two men and a woman stepped out.

  The trio split up. The taller, blond man headed alone toward a nearby brick building. The dreadlocked woman and the heavyset man crossed the street, hurrying for a corner coffeehouse. Above, the sky was darkening; at the street’s end, reflections of fast-moving clouds silently skipped across the canal like thrown stones.

  Inside the coffee shop, Amanda and Jacob waited in line for the cashier to finish the previous order. Amanda watched the clerk’s finger slowly roam over the register’s touchscreen, occasionally pecking at various spots. The customer being serviced loudly sighed and tossed his money on the counter, while behind the cashier, a teenage boy wearing a manager’s badge shook his head and reached to pull out one of his ear buds.

  Amanda looked away, unable to watch further. The clerk was old enough to be her grandmother, she thought. The old woman should be retired, watching TV with a cat curled in her lap at home instead of working for minimum wage, supervised by some twerp with terminal acne. She probably got laid off during one of the plant closings, and her pension, hosed in the corporate bankruptcy. And nobody gives a fuck.

  Her lip quivered. Well, soon, they would care—soon the whole world would care. That is if the whole thing wasn’t some gigantic, fucked-up takedown.

  ∞

  Inside the brick building, Gabriel approached a desk, as a woman rose behind it.

  Her peachy summer linen suite matched her smile. “So good to see you again.”

  Ignoring her outstretched hand, Gabriel slid into a chair facing the desk.

  Her smile remained unflagging, as she withdrew her arm and reclaimed her seat. “I trust all is well with your family?”

  “Of course.”

  She layered her hands in front of her, still smiling placidly. “So how may I be of assistance today?”

  “I need to transfer some funds to Europe.”

  “Oh, Europe’s lovely this time of year.”

  “It certainly is,” he replied, glancing at his watch.

  The woman smiled again, pulled open a drawer, and then slid a sheet across the desktop. “Please just fill out this slip, indicating the transfer amount and the routing instructions.”

  ∞

  From a window table in the coffeehouse, Amanda tore her gaze from the elderly clerk. She set down her paper cup and tapped at her laptop, which she figured cost more than what the cashier earned in a month.

  On the screen, the little whirling ball stopped spinning and disappeared, leaving behind a euro sign trailed by a long string of digits. She smiled at Jacob and grabbed her cup. Rising steam mingled as their containers bumped and the first thunderclap exploded outside. “Got it.”

  – 17 –

  Wednesday, 11 July

  Jince, Czech Republic

  The sharp jolt caused the passengers to clutch their seats. Two more hard bumps. Then the giant Il-76 finally glided into a patch of smooth air. The two Russians looked at each other. Then again at the wooden crates. Despite the flight’s near-continuous turbulence, all the straps remained tight.

  Outside the handful of windows, treetops appeared
level with the wings. Then a final hard smack, and the acrid smell of burning brakes invaded the hold. The plane swung hard left and came to a rest. The engines shut down.

  The Russians jumped out of their seats. The taller man pressed his face against a window. “The truck is here.” He pointed at the first crate. “Start with that one, and I’ll loosen these. We need to get on the road within thirty minutes to make the deadline.”

  A grinding noise sounded. A nearby section of fuselage started to fall away, creating a ramp down to the tarmac. Outside, not another plane or an airport terminal lay in sight, just a collection of corrugated metal buildings lining the runway’s far side.

  The other passengers began shuffling by, lugging suitcases or cardboard cartons. They clambered past the crates, down the ramp, and either climbed into waiting vehicles or congregated at the metal sheds.

  Twenty minutes later, the Russians loaded the final crate onto the truck. The shorter man pulled open the cab’s passenger door and started to climb in.

  “Hey, don’t forget—the instructions,” the taller one said.

  The shorter man snorted and stepped back down. “It’s a waste, I tell you.”

  “No kidding. But they were clear. And for what they are paying us, we leave them here.”

  Both men walked over to a trash barrel. Two loud thunks, one after the other, sounded.

  “Now, let’s go,” the taller man said, moving for the driver’s side of the truck.

  Moments later, a figure stepped away from a building and watched the truck speeding away on a service road paralleling the tarmac. The man who had bummed the cigarette on the plane flipped off the truck. “Rot in hell, Russian pigs and your precious cargo.”

  Then he walked to the trash barrel and peered inside. He bent over and reached in with both arms. “Well, what do we have here?” he said, standing back up and holding a Makarov in each hand.

  The man was still holding up the pistols, as a silver Peugeot sedan pulled from alongside a building and turned onto the service road.

  – 18 –

  Wednesday, 11 July

  Fuencaliente, Island of La Palma

  His stomach pressed up against his heart. The Jeep whipped through the curve. The tires regained full contact with the pavement, and Eric Hunt relaxed into his seat. Then Sam Quick shifted the transmission into top gear and smashed down the accelerator.

  Along the road’s one side, a rectilinear grid of salt ponds rushed past between the pavement and the sea. Black volcanic rock outlined the pools, while a different shade of red, ranging from pink lemonade to fresh-spilled blood, tinted each pond. On the road’s other side, the greens, purples, and blacks of a malvasia vineyard flashed by like a kaleidoscopic dam holding back the inland volcanoes.

  Hunt looked over at Quick, whose gaze was alternating between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. Her face betrayed no emotion other than a clear intent to return the Jeep as rapidly as possible to Tazacorte. “Sam, how do you stay so calm with Kalia missing?”

  The scientist glanced at Hunt. She wished she could explain how she expected contact from Slater’s abductors asking for her stolen laptop’s encryption keys. And how that request would lead to a series of events of escalating gravity that may or may not result in Slater’s safe return. And how then she would worry. Instead, all she said was, “You’ll understand soon.”

  She started to return her attention to the road, but her gaze caught on the rearview mirror. A spot was rapidly growing in the reflective glass. She depressed the clutch and jagged the shift lever from fifth to fourth gear. The gas pedal went to the floor, and the inrushing wind pushed both passengers deeper into their seats. But despite the Jeep’s increasing speed, the reflection continued enlarging.

  Quick nodded at the mirror. “We have company.”

  Hunt looked over his shoulder, as an orange compact tore up and then rapidly decelerated just in time to avoid ramming the Jeep’s rear bumper.

  “And the car looks an awful lot like the one used to take Kalia,” Quick added.

  “The two guys in the front are grinning like Cheshire cats,” Hunt said. “No sign of Kalia or anyone in the back.” He looked at Quick. “Think we can get them to pull over for a chat?”

  “For some reason, I rather doubt they’re amenable to a tête-à-tête,” Quick replied, as the road flattened, and the centerline broke into dashes. “But if they’re really just out for a casual spin, then let’s be considerate and allow them to pass.”

  She let up on the gas pedal. Then Quick, in the rearview mirror, and Hunt, over his shoulder, watched the gap between the two vehicles close and then stabilize, as the orange car matched its speed to the Jeep’s rather than seizing the opportunity to pass.

  “So much for being friendly,” Quick said, whipping the shift lever, and then popping the clutch and flooring the gas. The tachometer needle flicked the red line as the Jeep shot forward.

  The scientist relaxed back into her seat. Alongside the road, the salt farm narrowed to an end, with its rocky gridlines merging into a single, black stream of volcanic stone narrowly separating the asphalt from the sea.

  Sam Quick looked at Eric Hunt. “Now, let’s see if there’s more to these boys than their pretty smiles.”

  ∞

  The speedometer needle whisked past the 100-mph mark. The Jeep pounded ahead; the orange car held within inches of its rear bumper. Beside the road, white spray shot up and then collapsed on the narrow strip of black rocks separating the asphalt from the ocean. On the opposite side, row after row of banana trees roared by.

  Over his shoulder, Hunt watched the occupants high-five. “They have their noses up our tail like dogs sniffing a new friend,” he shouted over the wind noise.

  Quick’s eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. Then she hit the brakes, as the Jeep sliced into a tight, up-sloping turn. To maintain as much speed as possible, Quick swung wide into the opposite lane.

  Coming out of the turn, the road began steeply climbing. To the left, the drop to the ocean grew sharply. Despite the upslope, the Jeep’s speedometer needle resumed its relentless clockwise sweep, passing the 110-mph mark.

  “Does your phone have a signal yet?” Quick yelled.

  Hunt checked his mobile again. “Negative. But there must be service in that village we passed—”

  The Jeep juddered violently; metal screeched behind the scientists. The 4x4 veered hard toward the drop-off to the ocean. Quick immediately countersteered into the skid. The errant tires returned to the pavement. The Jeep cut back into its own lane. The engine screamed as Quick jerked the shift lever and slammed the accelerator. Behind them, the orange car held back, its front bumper flattened and askew from the collision.

  “Doing OK over there?” Quick shouted.

  “If I knew getting my PhD would be this much fun, I’d have opted for dual degrees,” Hunt yelled back.

  “Oh, this is nothing—just wait for your oral exams,” Quick hollered, checking the mirror again. “Hold tight.”

  Quick jagged the shift lever into fourth, and the tachometer needle bobbed and then shot for the red line. Keeping the gas pedal buried, Quick cranked the steering wheel; the tires howled, fighting to maintain purchase through the curve. The Jeep swung straight, and Hunt felt his stomach return to its usual anatomical position.

  The centerline leveled and broke into pieces. Banana trees blurred by. The Jeep’s speedometer needle stabilized at the 120-mph mark.

  Hunt watched the orange sedan break free of the last curve and then rapidly eat the gap to the 4x4. “Here they come again,” he shouted.

  “Brace!” Quick warned.

  An instant before the orange car blasted into the Jeep, Quick swung into the oncoming lane, slammed the brake, and spun the wheel back to the right, hoping to sideswipe the other vehicle. But the car’s driver stomped his brake pedal, slowing his lighter vehicle more rapidly. And the Jeep, with a squeal of rubber, sliced into the right lane, missing its opponent.

&nb
sp; The 4x4 recovered, gained speed, and entered a long turn. Quick weaved the Jeep back and forth across the lanes as if she were crudely stitching together the sea and the land. The sedan bobbed behind, unable to line up a hit. To the left, due to the road’s ongoing climb, the shoulder now dropped ninety feet to the rocks and water below.

  The Jeep rounded out of a curve. Quick tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Then she tried to shove the gas pedal through the floorboard.

  “Are you sure about this?” Hunt shouted, staring at a herd of sheep swelling in the lane ahead, fed from the inland side by animals streaming through an open gate, heading for the shore and its salty rocks.

  The Jeep veered hard left, slashing across the oncoming lane, where the sheep were now overflowing just ahead. The 4x4 hit the narrow gravel shoulder, the only bit of ground left before the dead plummet to the sea. The outer tires barely maintained their contact with land.

  Then tread grabbed stone; the Jeep shot forward. On the passenger side, the lambs passed so close Hunt could have reached out and run his fingers through their matted coats if he wanted.

  The Jeep broke past the flock. The sheep flooded the road in a panicked flight to the sea.

  Quick slammed the brake and cranked the wheel; the Jeep whipped around 180 degrees, laying down a half-circle of smoking tread. The fleeing animals completely blocked the roadway. Quick and Hunt heard a squeal of rubber, the screaming rev of a downshifted engine, and the shrill blare of a car horn.

  Then the horn’s pitch deepened to a Doppler moan, as the force of gravity accelerated the orange car ever faster. A cacophonous implosion of metal and glass preceded a huge splash. On the horizon, the final sliver of sun joined the orange car sinking beneath the Atlantic’s cool waters. The only sounds remaining on the roadway were blats of warning and the fast click of hooves against asphalt.

  Sam Quick turned to Eric Hunt. “See, I told you nothing to worry about—those guys couldn’t even hurt a lamb.”