The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 1)

by Aaron Leyshon

  Published by Rogue Kitten Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2020, by Aaron Leyshon. All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN : 978-0-6487753-2-4

  First published in Australia in 2020 by Rogue Kitten Media.

  Rogue Kitten Media LLC, 30 N Gould St, STE 4000, Sheridan, WY 82801

  The Spill

  The Beach Never Looked So Deadly

  Aaron Leyshon

  Contents

  The Ray Hammer Thrillers

  1. Loose Ends

  2. Captured

  3. Survivor’s Guilt

  4. Day Trip

  5. Night Terrors

  6. Little Notes

  7. Lost

  8. At Sea

  9. Discovery

  10. Tourist Trap

  11. Rendezvous

  12. Out to Sea

  13. Patsy

  14. Overdue

  15. Al Ronson

  16. Driving Under the Influence

  17. The Key

  18. Hangover

  19. Questions

  20. Poisonous

  21. Legs

  22. Connections

  23. Records

  24. Knife’s Edge

  25. Trapped

  26. Regret

  27. Justice

  28. Family

  If you liked this book, why not try…

  The Deal: Would You Kill For an Ace?

  The Deal: Would You Kill For an Ace?

  The Ray Hammer Thrillers

  Die A Little: No Such Thing as Half Dead (Free Short)

  The Spill: The Beach Never Looked So Deadly

  The Deal: Would You Kill for an Ace?

  The Strike: Can You Instagram a Nuclear Explosion?

  The Fight: One Shot. One Dead Man. $300 Million.

  The Stain: What is the True Value of Art?

  The Flame: Smoke. Mirrors. Lights Out. (Jan 2021)

  Receive your free copy of Die a Little by visiting: https://aaronleyshon.com/die

  Chapter 1

  Loose Ends

  There’s nothing quite like the noise of a casino; people laughing, cavorting, enjoying each other’s company as they move around the tables, as hands are dealt, as chips are played, as fortunes are won and lost, but I’d rather have been anywhere other than at the Admiral Casino that night. But, the life of a journalist isn’t quite so simple. You don’t get to choose what your missions are, what you’re sent to do, or what you’re reporting on, especially if you’re an investigative journalist.

  Two days ago, I’d arrived here in Gibraltar: me; my photographer Andy Duffy; and a pile of loose-leaf notes from my editor, who was still back in Los Angeles, impatiently waiting on the story he’d sent me to get.

  “Find out about the oil tankers in the Strait of Gibraltar,” he’d ordered in that peremptory way he had. “It’s a disaster waiting to happen, an ecological nightmare, a time bomb.” Yeah, he waxed poetic like that. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Other than that, he’d given me scant information, just a couple of names, including one of a certain oil magnate, Michael Connelly. He was the reason I was in this casino tonight, trying to deal with my jet lag after 15 hours in the air and that residual feeling of queasiness that came from having consumed half the liquor on board and very little of the dried-out in-flight dinner.

  The Admiral was Connelly’s casino; they were his goons at the door, his money playing out over the course of the tables that stretched all the way across the lavishly decorated room. I didn’t have much to go on other than his name, but as I walked past the slot machines being manned by leather-skinned old ladies in out-of-date lounge wear, towards the high-stakes tables, I felt like I was in Vegas. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what happens in Gibraltar—or so I hoped—turns into a story that I could take home, a story that I could write fast to get my editor off my back.

  I asked a few questions, and poked around. That’s what investigative journalists do. That’s what I do. I wasn’t having much luck, though.

  I figured that if I told enough people I was looking for Michael Connelly, word would get around to him eventually. So, I walked up to one of the croupiers. “Is there a Michael Connelly around here?”

  Nobody else sat at the table, which was weird, as the place was humming. The croupier pinned me with an odd look, her hands never ceasing from their task of stacking chips and laying out the instruments of vice that kept the joint going. “Who’s asking?”

  “Ray Hammer. I’m a journalist. I’m here temporarily on an assignment.”

  She looked me up and down. “You don’t look like a journalist.”

  I’d heard that before, and every time someone said it, they acted like it was the most perceptive observation ever uttered. I nodded agreeably. “Ah, it’s the way of the game. The less you look like a journalist, the less people throw you out of buildings, especially casinos.”

  She laughed. “I mean… you look military.”

  “Ex-military,” I corrected, mildly pleased. I might have spent almost a day cramped up in narrow seats in coach and most of the night before trying not to let jet lag drive me insane, but I guess my broad shoulders and ramrod spine was still a holdover from my past.

  Her smile dimmed a bit, and she returned her focus to her task at the tables, hands going lightning fast. Which is how they got you. “No, there’s no Michael Connelly here.”

  No hard feelings, I thought. Loose lips, and all that. I decided to try my luck in the poker hall. I moved my way around, went to the cashier, got out a handful of colorful Gibraltar pounds, put some chips down on a table, and played a few rounds.

  Nothing was going my way. I was dealt bad cards—at least, that’s the excuse I used to comfort my ego. Finally, after a few stiff drinks and a few hundred down the drain, I walked on. Somebody here had to know something. The croupier at the poker table had no idea who I was talking about, or said that she had no idea, anyway. But there was a look people got when I mentioned his name. As soon as the words ‘Michael Connelly’ popped from my mouth, they all clouded over, their faces turning gray.

  “No, no, there’s no one like that in here.”

  “You know, the big oil magnate,” I persisted. “The guy who owns this place.”

  “No, we don’t know him.” Of course not.

  So, you can imagine my surprise when, walking into the craps hall, I saw a gaggle of people, heads thrown back in laughter, their eyes shining; and in the middle of this group, a tall man in a suit that barely covered his big paunch. I’d seen a photo of him before. That was all my editor had given me on him. Michael Connelly, owner and director of Connelly Oil, one of the biggest companies exporting oil around the world and one of the few companies that owned almost all of the ships in the Strait of Gibraltar.

  He was my man. I needed an interview with him. If I could get that interview, then things would go smoothly. Then, I’d be on my way out of here. I could get back home and write that story, and life would return to normal. Whatever normal was. I’d travelled enough in the service to never want to set foot outside my home country again. Gibraltar might be breezy and quaint, but I preferred t
he noise and grime of LA any day.

  Here goes. I sauntered over to the craps table, squished myself in at the end of the gaggle and nudged the guy beside me in the ribs. “Hey, why is everyone so happy?”

  He looked up at me, shock and surprise registering on his face. “Do I know you?”

  “No. I just noticed everyone was having such a good time. I wanted to see what was happening.”

  He laughed. “Ah, the boss is having a good night. Dice keep coming up his way.”

  Big surprise, I thought. I shrugged meaningfully. “It’s his casino, right?”

  The guy looked defensive. “What are you saying? They’re rigged?”

  “Uh, no, I wouldn’t say that. I’m just saying, you know, it’s his prerogative to have a good time. It’s his casino. He can do what he likes.”

  “He plays with his own money, you know. He could lose everything, and he’s lost before. It’s not pretty. But, tonight, he’s on a roll. He’s havin’ a good night.”

  The dice crashed against the end of the table, bouncing back: a perfect seven. The crowd whooped with excitement, enjoying the victory second hand. Drinks were downed. Cheers rang out. Everyone continued on their own way, laughing, playful, clapping hands and dancing around. Popular guy.

  I sidled over closer to Michael Connelly, tapped him on the arm. “Uh, Mr. Connelly?”

  He looked me over, the way a Michelin star chef looked at the guy dragging in the sacks of potatoes. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  I decided to play it confident. “It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, Mr. Connelly.”

  “And what would that be, Mr. Hammer?”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but still, my brow shot up. “You know my name.”

  “I do my research. I know who comes into this town, especially if they’re looking into my operations. What is it you think you can do for me, Mr. Hammer?”

  “I think I can tell your story. I think I can make it real. I can make it compelling and interesting to the world. I think there’s an angle here that’s not being looked at. Without oil, we can’t have all the things that make our world go round. It’s not just a matter of ecological complications. You haven’t had an ecological disaster here. While there’s the potential for one, there’s also the potential for changing in the way that you manage oil, and you’re doing that. You’re at the forefront of shipping.”

  “I’m not a big fan of the news.”

  That was an understatement. When it came to the press, Connelly was known to get downright hostile. “I’ve heard it said,” I answered mildly.

  “And I’m not likely to give exclusive interviews, especially to someone who’s writing about the possibility of my company doing something that’s terrible or being involved in something that destroys the environment. I care about the environment, you know.”

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Connelly. I’m sure you do.” I hoped I didn’t sound patronizing.

  “Maybe you can do something for me, and then we’ll see if I grant you that interview.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Come by tomorrow, say, twelve noon. I’ve already given you enough of my time, enough of an interview for now.” He turned abruptly away. The conversation was obviously over. “Here, Pavel, pass me my cards.”

  A well-dressed man, standing at Connelly’s elbow in a suit with a bulge in his pocket, looked me up and down, reached into his inner jacket pocket and handed me a business card.

  “Twelve midday should suit just fine.”

  I nodded, but pressed my luck. “You sure there’s nothing you can tell me now? I’ve got an exclusive with the minister of the environment. He’s saying that ships through here need to be shut down. He’s saying there’s a potential for disaster. Greenpeace is saying it’s only a matter of time. There’ve been small spills and a bigger one is likely. Interestingly, of those small spills, seven came from your ships.”

  “Don’t try me, Mr. Hammer.”

  I nodded again, like the most reasonable man in the world. “You got nothing to say about those seven ships that had small leaks?”

  His mouth was a stony line. “I have nothing to say.” He turned to the croupier manning the table. “Say, put two million on this roll,” he decided impulsively.

  Two million, I thought. Pounds, which were worth even more than dollars. He really was on a roll.

  The bet was placed. He cupped the dice in his hands, held them up to his lips, kissed his hands. The gaggle of onlookers fell silent, all eyes on those thick-fingered, clasped hands.

  Connelly couldn’t resist showing off. “Shall we see how the dice fall, Mr. Hammer?”

  “I’m not sure they’ll be in your favor,” I warned him mildly, but in my head I was longing to see the rich, over-pampered bastard skid on his own banana peel and fall flat on his ass in front of all his fans.

  He rolled them. They crashed against the edge of the craps table. Bounced back. Snake eyes.

  The look of smug complacency on Michael Connelly’s face changed in an instant. Suddenly, he was no longer smiling. His eyes turned a dark, menacing black. He looked down at me over his nose.

  “You just lost me two million pounds,” he accused me unfairly, as if I’d bumped his arm or blown on the dice like some casino floozy. “You and your fucking questions. I don’t know if I’ll see you tomorrow after all. I don’t know if I’ll give you that interview. You don’t deserve it. How dare you come in here talking your drivel and your slime about what’s happened on my ships? You think I cause these disasters? You think these tiny spills mean something?”

  “They don’t mean anything,” I lied, deciding it would behoove me to be agreeable now that the tide of his temper had turned.

  “I hate the media, Mr. Hammer. I hate the media, and you better watch out.” He was pouting like a spoiled kid, holding his hand out, palm up, like he wanted his ball back so he could go home. “Now, give me back that card.”

  I did as he said, but as I handed it over I looked at the address on it, committed it to memory, and I felt my hopes sinking. The atmosphere, previously humming with delight, was now vibrating with hostility. The crowd were no longer laughing. They were gathered around me, jeering. I had to get out of there.

  “You will pay for this. You don’t just come into my casino and screw things up like this.”

  The crowd got in on the game now. “Hey! Don’t let him get away with that. He’s an asshole!”

  “Connelly, throw him out!”

  “No, give him the once-over!”

  Pavel looked up to his boss. “Shall I, sir?”

  Connelly looked back at me. His face was as dark as a cloud moments before a hailstorm hit. “Yeah, yeah, rub him up. Show him what it means to be in the media here. He ain’t got no access to me. He ain’t got no business coming in here, playing around, throwing words like that. Show him what happens when you cheat in a casino.”

  I tensed, preparing for an attack. Just a handful of years before, in my prime as a soldier, I could take on any attacker—two at a time if necessary. But the combination of jet lag and lack of exercise and oh, maybe half a dozen neat gins, had softened me up. Still, I brought my fists up. Ready or not, I thought.

  Pavel made a grab for me, clutching my lapel and hauling off to deliver a punch. I slipped out of my jacket, turned, ran. As I headed through the halls of the casino, I noticed the croupiers stepping away from the table, hands held to their earpieces. News of my newly minted status as persona non grata was travelling fast.

  I stepped left to dodge one worker, and then feinted round the slot machines. Old ladies scattered, clutching their plastic bowls of slot machine tokens. An attendant came bustling down the hallway. A security guard drew his gun—a neat little Colt, I noticed absently.

  And there I was, unarmed. Damn Gibraltar and their strict customs policies.

  “Stop right there!” he commanded.

  I stopped right there. My hands went up, shaking just a lit
tle from the fact that it had been half an hour since my last drink. If I didn’t top up the tank often enough, they tended to do that.

  Rough hands yanked on my arms and I felt a heavy hand—Pavel’s hand—on the back of my neck. He marched me back up through the halls, past the aunties and grannies who had returned to their slots, past the croupiers, past the people playing blackjack. All of them looked at me. Their eyes said what I was thinking: he’s fucked.

  I’m fucked.

  Chapter 2

  Captured

  I looked left and right. On either side of me, in front and behind, sour-faced men stood, weapons drawn. Glock 22s and Colt M1911s, sturdy and reliable. Standard rent-a-cop fare. They fondled their weapons intimately, like teens who’d just discovered how their dicks worked.

  And there I was, unarmed like a damn fool. I didn’t even have a knife to bring to this gunfight. There was no escape, no way out. Why was I even here? I’d had nothing to go on. I’d just been hoping that I’d get an interview and just poke around a little bit, find out some information. Then maybe I’d have a story. Maybe I’d be able to create something that would sell, something that would get me back out of here, and get me home. But now, here I was, being frog-marched to a dark room in a bright casino.

  I should have fought back, but the butterflies in my stomach and my fading, booze-drenched mind wouldn’t let me. The marines would have been ashamed to call me one of their own. I’ve been in some real scrapes before, both in the service and in my new incarnation as an investigative journalist. I knew how to take my lumps . . . and somewhere in my gin-soaked memory, I knew how to give them. Still, I didn’t like the idea of being beaten up any more than I liked the idea of staying in Gibraltar another day.