The Paradise Key (Harvey Bennett Thrillers Book 5)

by Nick Thacker

  “You — you’re one of them?” Dr. Lindgren asked.

  “Let Julie go,” Reggie said.

  Crawford ignored Reggie.

  “The picture in your office,” Ben muttered. “It was you.”

  “I had my arm amputated at age eight,” he said. “It’s the reason I founded OceanTech. Paradisum has always been a dream of mine. I truly wanted to build something spectacular; a modern-day Disney. A medical breakthrough that would change the world.”

  “Disney didn’t kidnap tribes of natives and rip their arms off,” Reggie said.

  “Greatness comes at a cost, Gareth.”

  Suddenly Julie pulled herself upward, using Crawford’s arm as a support. She twisted and threw her legs over and around the man’s head, pulling him down to his knees. She maintained the fluid motion, ending up on the ground behind him, his own arm pulled tight to his chest as she held it.

  It was a brilliantly executed move, one he had taught her, and Reggie was both proud and surprised.

  She jumped backwards, pushing herself away from the man. Crawford struggled to get up, but one of his legs rolled off the edge of the pier and fell into the water. He reacted quickly and the crocodiles missed him by inches.

  Reggie sprang into action. Crawford was laying on the pier, facedown, about to push himself up. Julie was safely away from the action, and Ben was out of range.

  He fired two shots, both into the man’s back.

  Crawford coughed, blood spilling from his mouth, then he rolled over onto his back. His breathing was staggered, uneven. He had a fury and confusion in his eyes as he stared up at Reggie.

  “I — I can’t… it wasn’t done,” he finally said. “I wasn’t done.”

  The CSO team, plus Dr. Sarah Lindgren, gathered around the dying man.

  “You are done,” Reggie said. “All of this is done. Everything here will be gone. We will make sure of it.”

  A bullet zinged past, impacting in a cloud of white dust with the concrete pier. The sound of two more gunshots followed, both rounds landing in the water nearby.

  “Time to go, Reggie,” Ben said. “Finish this.”

  Reggie nodded once, then fired a final shot. He lifted the weapon up and aimed it at the group of advancing Ravenshadow men making their way toward them over the bridge.

  Too far for an accurate shot from either side.

  And he knew they needed to keep it that way.

  The sound of the helicopter made it to the forefront of Reggie’s mind, and he looked over his shoulder. It was there on the helipad, waiting. A line of three people was running toward it, covering their heads.

  I guess they know about the fighting, he thought.

  Another sound reached his ears. Motors, higher-pitched than the chopper, and closer.

  Boats.

  He saw three of them arcing out around the waters between the central and second rings, appearing from somewhere on the other side of the hotel. He knew it was Ravenshadow, as the men on each were armed, all but the drivers staring down their sights at them.

  A door opened at the base of the hotel, the spot they’d entered only a day before. Two huge palm trees floated up on either side of the doors, a thatch-roofed bar standing sentinel right next to the doors.

  A six-man team of Ravenshadow men spilled out from the doors.

  Time to go.

  It was a straight shot to the helicopter, but it would be a tight fit inside. He wasn’t sure if the chopper would have enough fuel to power through having all of them aboard, but it didn’t matter now.

  Ben saw it, too. “To the helicopter!” he yelled, running with Julie’s hand in his.

  Reggie waited for him to pass, then pushed Sarah along behind them. “Get inside! I’ll cover you from here as best I can!”

  The group ran back over the pier, toward the advancing teams of men and boats, then took a hard left toward the bridge that connected the second and third rings. They ran full-tilt over the bridge, aiming for the spot where the helicopter was loading the last of the group of investors and park guests inside.

  Reggie turned and fired at one of of the boats, which had pulled up alongside the bridge just inside the second ring. He missed, but it bought them a few extra seconds as the soldiers all ducked for cover.

  Julie reached the chopper first, nearly diving inside. The chopper lifted off, but she began yelling something Reggie couldn’t hear. Ben made it, then Sarah. He caught a glimpse of one of the investors inside, a fat man wearing a suit, a shocked expression on his face.

  He ran harder, ignoring the onslaught from behind him at the moment. He dove at the chopper’s skid, grabbed it with one hand, and felt the aircraft lifting up from the pad. His feet left the ground, and Ben and Julie reached out to help him aboard.

  Bullets pinged at the paneling around him. They’re seriously firing at us? he thought. Either they didn’t realized the chopper was filled with innocent civilians, or — more likely — The Hawk had ordered the attack.

  He pulled himself up and into the belly of the chopper, then climbed over people to get to the pilot. He was alone in the cockpit, and Reggie could tell he was struggling with the controls.

  “They’re shooting at us!” the pilot yelled.

  “They’re shooting at me,” he said. “Just get up as fast as we can, and get us out of range.”

  The pilot nodded, but Reggie could see him checking the instrument panel. “We’re over capacity,” he yelled. “Not sure we can make it to —“

  “Just get us up,” Reggie said. “Then land on whatever can hold us. Forget about getting all the way to your destination.”

  The pilot nodded again, then muttered something under his breath.

  He turned to the group of scared investors sitting in the chopper’s cabin seats facing each other in two rows, his own team scattered about on the floor between their legs.

  Julie’s eyes were closed and she was leaning on Ben’s knees. He caught Sarah’s gaze. She was smiling at him, breathing heavily.

  He turned to the fat man he had nearly stepped on when entering the helicopter. The man looked beyond angry.

  “You want to tell me what this is about?” he barked. It was nearly impossible to hear him over the sound of the straining chopper.

  “Not really,” Reggie said. “But I do know that your investment here isn’t going to pan out.”

  He squeezed into the space between the fat man’s gut and the woman in the chair next to him. Her face was white with fear, but she moved over a few inches to allow him more room. It was uncomfortable, too tight and he could feel the man’s fat leeching out of his own space and into Reggie’s, and it was hot.

  But we aren’t getting shot at, he realized.

  He leaned his head back against the hard, metal wall panel that separated the cockpit from the cabin, and fell asleep, smiling.

  59

  THE FLIGHT TO THE BAHAMAS was a smooth, half-hour flight. Most of it was uneventful, with the exception of when the pilot ordered them to discard the civilians’ luggage into the sea. The fat man and another man in the group of investors rose to argue, but Reggie’s subcompact machine gun and Ben’s glare sat them right back down.

  Finally under the weight limit, the pilot was able to get them moving well. They landed at Grand Bahamas’ West End Airport, right on the tarmac of the single runway, as there was no helicopter pad. The small cluster of five buildings, surrounded on all sides by palm trees, was the entirety of the ‘airport.’ A lone employee ran out to greet them, surprised by their sudden appearance on his runway although the pilot had attempted to hail his UNICOM frequency numerous times.

  Reggie jumped out first, offered help to the investors, and finally helped Ben, Julie, and Dr. Lindgren off the chopper.

  He turned to greet the pilot and shake his hand as he exited the cockpit, and finally Reggie turned and followed the procession into the first of the buildings next to the runway.

  There the employee offered them warm sodas and cold
beer. There was a water jug upended in a pouring station in the small lobby, but it looked as though it had been there since the airport’s facilities had been installed.

  Reggie, Sarah, and Ben opted for a beer, and Julie grabbed a soda. The investors sat in folding chairs against the wall, Reggie’s weapon still providing all the motivation they needed to stay in one place. Until he was sure they were innocent, he wasn’t about to let them leave.

  “What now?” Ben asked.

  “We wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For me,” a voice said.

  They turned, and Reggie saw the framed silhouette of a large body in the doorway. Tall and muscular, short-cropped hair, it could have been any Marine or Army grunt he’d served with.

  But it was no Marine.

  “Mrs. E,” Reggie said. “Welcome.”

  “Glad I caught you,” the woman said in her thick accent. She looked around the room, her eyes falling on each of the investors and glaring at them individually as if she had already decided they were guilty. “I was getting tired of sitting around working on my husband’s research projects.” She smiled, shaking each of their hands. Dr. Sarah Lindgren was introduced to their benefactor, one of the founding members and representatives of the CSO.

  “You got here fast,” Ben said. “You must have been nearby.”

  She nodded. “I have been in The Bahamas since yesterday, anticipating a retrieval operation, although I am glad to see you all made it out safely. We were monitoring the UNICOM and ATC channels. I heard your pilot trying to hail the West End airport, announcing a ‘heavy load incoming.’ Matched up the coordinates and decided it was impossible for a chopper to make it that far from the mainland. It had to be you.”

  “And it was. Thanks for coming, E,” Reggie said. “What’s going to happen to Paradisum? And OceanTech?”

  “We are preparing a statement that will be delivered to the United Nations, as well as all countries the company has a footprint in. Four in total that we have found, though I suspect there are many more. I am sure these people behind you will be more than happy to help with that. And Paradisum is in the process of being requisitioned by the Bahamian authorities, and some US Coast Guard personnel will be there by tomorrow morning to clear out any remaining staff and escort the Ravenshadow teams from the premises.”

  “If they’re even still there,” Reggie muttered.

  “We predict that they will be long gone.” Mrs. E sighed. “You might be giving yourself a tough time, Gareth, in that you failed to bring in Vicente Garza, but your team succeeded in discovering a major medical and pharmaceutical coverup. That will not go unnoticed.”

  Reggie hung his head. “Still — I feel like we were too late. Make a note that there is a group of people, captives, on the lower level beneath the second ring of Paradisum. They’ll need to be treated and examined, but I want to know that they’ll get back to wherever they came from, safely.”

  She nodded. “Of course. And Mr. E is interested in debriefing as soon as you are ready.”

  Reggie sighed. “Right. I figured he would be. Listen, E, we could use some shut-eye.” He held up his half-empty beer. “And about four more of these.”

  She smiled. “I told him the debrief would take place no earlier than tomorrow, but only on one condition.

  Reggie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “I told him you would need a week here afterward to rest and catch up. All expenses paid, courtesy of the Civilian Special Operations.”

  “And?”

  “He agreed. He is working on your accommodations as we speak.”

  “Great,” Reggie said. “I can stand a few more days in The Bahamas, I guess.”

  He looked over at Ben and Julie. Ben’s arm was over his fiancee’s shoulder, and she was leaning heavily on him. He stood straight, completely stoic and silent.

  “I’m sure they could use a vacation from their vacation, as well,” he added.

  Ben nodded, and Julie smiled.

  “My husband has a room for you two,” she said. “And one for you, Gareth. Two rooms total, but we can make it three if you would like. We were not sure if you would be staying or not, Dr. Lindgren. But we are happy to extend our offer to you as well.”

  She grinned, then winked at Reggie. “I’d be happy to stay. But two rooms is fine.”

  Afterword

  If you liked this book (or even if you hated it…) write a review or rate it. You might not think it makes a difference, but it does.

  Besides actual currency (money), the currency of today’s writing world is reviews. Reviews, good or bad, tell other people that an author is worth reading.

  As an “indie” author, I need all the help I can get. I’m hoping that since you made it this far into my book, you have some sort of opinion on it.

  Would you mind sharing that opinion? It only takes a second.

  Nick Thacker

  Colorado Springs, CO

  Mark for Blood: Preview

  Want something new to read?

  Hailed as “the new Jack Reacher,” Mason Dixon is a bartender.

  …and an assassin.

  He’s edgy, funny, and just wants to be left alone. But people keep showing up, needing to die.

  Turn the page for a sneak-peak at the first book in the brand-new Mason Dixon Thrillers series, Mark for Blood!

  1

  I KNEW I WOULD KILL him as soon as he walked in.

  Not quite sure how, but I knew. That feeling was there. In all of my fifteen years behind the bar I don’t remember a time when it was wrong — off slightly perhaps, but never flat-out wrong. There was that time it told me it was the guy, instead of the girl, but we got that straightened out (or rather, it didn’t really matter much after I’d killed them both, as I found out later he was just as much a dirty schmuck as she was dirty all around).

  There was also that night I went around a few times with a younger kid, a guy ten years my inferior, and I thought the whole time he was screwing with me. Took me until he had a knife at my throat, his huge bicep turning his faded Semper Fi tat into a bloated pig of a prior life’s memory. I used that kid’s own knife on him. ‘Once a marine, always a marine’ doesn’t hold a lot of weight when your side gig starts paying more than the US government, I guess.

  But after a few times testing that feeling I started trusting that feeling. In my mind it’s more of a feeling anyway. It’s a knowledge — an instinct, really. I just know.

  So he walked in, and I knew he was the mark.

  He looked like he was in college — that shitty outfit, wearing pants that sagged to his asscrack, those shoes that said ‘I don’t give a shit but I care that you think I give a shit,’ and that hair.

  My God, that hair.

  His hair would’ve made me kill him even if I didn’t have another reason to. In some ways I think I even made his hair the main reason. It was poofed up, the pressed-down-to-his-ears, then teased in a not-accidental kind of way the way they do it up in a salon that’s meant for men the same way a tampon’s meant for men. The kind of hair that says, ‘yeah, my dad’s got the money to bail me out.’

  I didn’t have a plan for this kid — I never do. One of the reasons I’m the best at what I do is that I hate planning. Plans never go the way they’re supposed to, and by the time you’ve planned through all the possible outcomes of a situation, the plan’s useless because the situation’s changed.

  Another one of the of the reasons I’m the best is that while I hate plans, I’m the best with details. I know what people are thinking even before they do sometimes. It’s not a superpower, but I guess it’s a gift. Haven’t met anyone else who’s able to do it quite like I can yet. That’s how I knew it about him. He was already shouting when he walked in, but of course he wasn’t walking in alone. These types always travel in groups — a posse. His was right behind him, stumbling in like they’d already been drinking for a few hours with those huge dumb smiles on their faces but waiting until their lead
er approved of some invisible thing before they spoke or walked toward the bar. Four of them, altogether, but the main one came right up toward me at the bar.

  He did approve, I guess, because he started toward me and the others dispersed. I had the towel in my hand and I was moving it like I was supposed to, the universal sign of ‘I’m cleaning,’ even though we all know it takes more than a whitish towel and a Karate Kid motion to clean a bar top, when he gave me the nod.

  ‘The nod,’ meaning that half-assed head throwback that couldn’t possibly get any lazier. I’m a classier type, so I returned with a full, deep, frowned-faced forward nod.

  “‘Sup,” he half-assed.

  “How are you tonight?” I asked, raising my voice just a bit to carry to him over the low roar of the other patrons and the clinking of glassware. There weren’t many — the way I liked it — but there were enough engaged in a card game on one side and a few in a deep conversation on the other to create a steady din.

  “Good, man. Scotch, on the rocks.”

  “You got it. Weapon of choice?”

  His micro expression clued me in, but to his credit he recovered quickly. “Uh, yeah, sorry. How about Macallan?”

  “The Macallan?”

  He looked at me for a moment. I knew what he was thinking, too: It’s that important to you that you gotta give the weight of a ‘the?’

  I shook my head. “No, it’s part of the name. It’s called ‘The —‘ never mind.”

  He laughed. “Good stuff, man. Yeah, I’ll take one of those, or whatever. On the rocks.”

  “12? 18? 25?”

  He frowned.

  “Years…”

  “Ah, right. Uh, 12? What’s the price on those?”

  I shook my head. Imperceptibly to him, but it was for me. Bartenders — real ones — hate that. If you know what you want, it shouldn’t much matter how much it costs, right? This isn’t a ‘$2-you-call-it’ bar, anyway.