The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1)

by Scott Corlett

  Molly Matson set down the pitcher, distributed the lemonades, and lifted her drink. “Here’s to ‘Quick’ thinking. If not for Sam and you all, then Key Biscayne would now be an empty spit of sand. And I’d be floating in the Atlantic—along with a couple million of my fellow Floridians.” Her eyes twinkled. “Though that calamity might have returned the social security system to solvency!”

  The glasses rose and kissed over the table.

  “Eric, Kalia, and”—Quick’s hand glanced a wrist, just below a red jag of healing skin—“Zach were the key players. I was just along for the ride.”

  Kalia Slater and Zach Davies vigorously shook their heads, while Eric Hunt grimaced. “Please don’t make me laugh, Sam. My ribs are still killing me as it is, especially after all the yelling over yesterday’s excitement,” Hunt panted, pointing at his bandages.

  Matson lifted her glass again. “Speaking of yesterday, here’s to the Devil’s Throat: if we can keep that Devil’s Throat bacteria cranking out hydrogen gas using industrial waste for food, then the United States will lead the world into the Hydrogen Age. And, as much as it pains me to say, we can’t forget to toast Harley’s contribution of contacting his buddy, the secretary of defense, to explain the situation to the president—”

  “¡Hola!”

  Everyone turned.

  Seeing the new arrival, Quick and Davies jumped up, while Matson and Slater rose from their seats, and Hunt struggled to push himself up from his chair. Quick and Davies hugged the man, followed by Hunt, who gingerly gave the visitor a long squeeze.

  Matson grabbed the entrant’s hand. “I’m Molly Matson, and you must be señor Delgado.”

  “Sí, please call me Jorge.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Jorge. I trust you had a good flight from Madrid. Please sit and have some lemonade.” Matson held out an arm. “I believe you know everyone present except for our young volcanologist, Kalia Slater.”

  The two shook hands, and then Delgado took a seat. “So nice to see you all. After such crazy times in Spain, I figured I would never see you again, that is until Dr.—”

  “I may be old enough to be your grandmadre, but you call me Molly!”

  Delgado laughed. “That is until Molly called and invited me for a visit to Florida.” He sipped from his glass and raised a brow. “American lemonade is sweeter than I expected.”

  Today, the usual south Florida sea breezes were slack, but the customary subtropical humidity and sunshine were ever diligent in duty. By the time Quick and the others had apprised Delgado of the events since their parting outside the Madrid dance club, including the bits that had not made the media, Dolores had refreshed the lemonade pitcher three times.

  “And your guide who was shot? How is he doing now?” Jorge asked.

  “Manuelo Alcanzar is well on his way to a complete recovery and no doubt will soon again lead tours of the hiking trails around La Garganta del Diablo, though his wife has forbidden him from ever again entering the Devil’s Throat,” Quick said. “We invited them to join us today at NRLI’s expense, but they declined so that Manuelo can continue his physical therapy uninterrupted.”

  “And the headless body in Prague? Whose was that?” Delgado asked.

  “The decoy corpse was that of an unfortunate young woman, an involuntary worker—” Davies started.

  “A sex slave,” Quick interrupted.

  Davies nodded. “A sex slave in Sergei Sokolóv’s Prague brothel—ironically, the same position that the young Nin Zanin held before Sokolóv took her as his lover.”

  “The good news,” Quick added, “is the investigation of Sokolóv’s business dealings has resulted in the rescue and repatriation of several hundred teenagers from his brothels and factories.”

  “In fact,” Davies continued, “the State Department just forwarded Eric a thank-you letter from a teenage girl named Helena, who helped Eric during his visit to the Prague brothel, and who is now back home with her family in Ukraine.”

  “And the old man in the Prado basement?” Delgado asked.

  “Turns out he was a former CIA agent whom Sokolóv and the then-underage Zanin sisters discredited at the behest of the KGB during the early ’80s,” Davies said. “He was a man on a high-stakes mission to clear his reputation. He lost.”

  Delgado’s brow rose. “I’m just glad the crazy sisters”—he looked at Davies and laughed—“one you said was your wife when I met you, got what they deserved.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Quick’s gaze fell briefly on Slater and Hunt, and Davies. They could never share this part of the story with Delgado or anyone else—not even Matson—lest they risk violating the terms of the national security letter that each had received during their debriefings.

  But Quick pictured the moment after the sixty seconds of pure darkness in the Devil’s Throat when Inspector Reyes had switched back on the power from the generator shed, and light had returned to the hexagonal chamber: Solta Zanin and the Spanish police officer crumpled on the wooden wheel; an abandoned red shoe marking the only sign of Nin Zanin; and the warmth of Amanda Davies’s blood covering her hands, as she tended the young woman’s wound rather than chasing Nin into the tunnels. The scientist who had arrived on La Palma, she thought, would have gone after Nin; but instead, she had stayed to help a woman whom she barely knew. So much for logic.

  “Zach, how is your sister doing?” Slater asked, remembering the big scared eyes and the wild dreadlocks that had emerged from under the hood during their captivity in La Garganta del Diablo.

  “Thanks to Sam’s remaining with her in mine”—Davies draped an arm over Quick’s shoulders, eliciting glances between Matson, Hunt, and Slater—“Manny has made as complete a recovery from her physical injuries as possible, though she’ll never again have full use of one arm thanks to Nin’s bullet. Sam also appealed on her behalf to President James, who could little refuse after Sam had saved his life in Madrid.” Davies sighed. “But even with his intercession, Manny will be an old woman when, if ever, she is released from prison.”

  “I wonder how Inspector Reyes is doing,” Hunt asked.

  “I called the Tazacorte police station in the hopes of flying him in for our little pool gathering,” Matson said. “But apparently the inspector retired from the police force and now volunteers for a charity providing legal aid to African asylum-seekers on the Canary Islands. Isn’t that the sweetest—”

  The wave raced across the beach, golf course, and pool and then crashed onto the patio; mouths stopped moving; heads jerked toward the water. The sound wave receded, as the noise of the outlier breaker, an ocean wave significantly larger than its companions but by no means unusual, faded.

  Around the table, the six looked at each other with large eyes, and their embarrassed laughter lasted until a voice called out, “Ms. Molly?”

  “Ah, there you boys are!” Matson shot up and across the patio to Dolores, who was flanked at each arm by a man in white—on one side, by a tanned youth in tennis shorts and a T-shirt; and at the other arm, by a tall, buzz-cut young man in a naval uniform. Matson inserted herself between the men, hooked their arms with hers, and led them toward the table.

  “Everyone, this is Jake, my tennis instructor”—she turned to other man—“and this is Petty Officer Eddie Lewis, NRLI’s most unflappable sentry.”

  Everyone waved “hello,” while Quick shook her head.

  Matson continued, “Sam and Kalia are already suited up, and Eric is excused due to his injuries. But Zach and Jorge, I insist you follow these boys into the pool house and change into the waiting bathing suits. Then we’ll have a nice swim before dinner.”

  Davies and Delgado looked at each other, shrugged, and rose to follow the new arrivals. As the men neared the cabana, Matson shouted, “If on the off chance that Dolores forgot to put out the suits, then don’t worry, we’re real casual around here!”

  The tennis player looked over his shoulder and shook his head. Matson blew him a kiss.

  After
the men had disappeared into the pool house, Quick turned to Matson. “You old dog—I’ll wager anything that not a single swimsuit is waiting in that cabana.”

  Molly Matson raised her glass and looked at Eric Hunt and Kalia Slater. “No, sweetie, they sure don’t call you Sam Quick for nothing!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I thank the people of La Palma for welcoming me to your island and pointing me in the right direction as I researched this book. La Palma is truly one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and the islanders are some of the friendliest people on earth. I am honored to have visited.

  Next, I thank geophysicists Steven N. Ward and Simon Day for their important research describing the potential threat posed by La Palma’s western flank. The television program “Mega-Tsunami: Wave of Destruction” first brought my attention to this danger and set off all those nagging “what if … ” questions that have held me captive for all these years.

  My deep thanks goes to the readers who suffered through the early drafts and revisions, and whose input made this a better novel. In alphabetical order, these include: Paul Clark, Andrew Corlett, Kim Corlett, Joe DeMatio, Peg Kelley, Jary Larsen, and Jim Washburn. My partner in all things, Peter Rowland, endured the most rereads, and the book is far the better for his wisdom and advice.

  To my other close friends and family members—A&M, BM, D&S, DC, EJ, G&G, J&M, KV, M&R, and RW—I thank you for your support. And to Seven and Craig Vassau, I’m sorry I didn’t finish this in time—your barks and laughter are missed.

  I am in the debt of many others, including but by no means limited to Troy Ziel, who created the great cover art; the helpful folks at 52 Novels for the interior layout and design; and John Nieto for his always excellent photography.

  Finally, I am most grateful to you, the reader, for sharing this adventure with Sam Quick and me. Please tell your friends about the book. And be on the lookout—Sam Quick is already hunting for her next adventure.

  ABOUT SCOTT CORLETT

  Photo credit: John Nieto

  Scott Corlett is the author of the Sam Quick Adventure series. He lives in San Francisco and enjoys climbing volcanic islands. Visit scottcorlett.com to learn more.

  COMING SOON

  Sam Quick is already hunting for her next adventure. The next book in the Sam Quick Adventure series will be available soon. Sign up at scottcorlett.com to receive updates.