Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6)

by David F. Berens

  When he did, the door let go in a rush and he fell through.

  16

  Frank ‘N’ Buff

  Troy took the stairs up to the house three at a time, stumbling only once. His bad knee scraped down two of the steps, burning a big gash into his shin. He winced, but held on and bounded through the door into the house.

  “Prosperity? Hey! Where are you?” he yelled, but only got an echo as a response.

  He ran from room to room, his worry slipping into anxiety, his anxiety turning into fear. He had rescued her only to have her disappear again. The bedrooms were all empty and looked undisturbed. He jogged back down the stairs, and he saw the living room had been ransacked. The coffee table was turned over and had a big splintered hole in it. The back door was smashed and there was blood—blood mixed in with the glass, and a trail of dark blood drops leading from the recliner to the front door.

  She must have fought with them and maybe they threw her through the back door. God, that had to have hurt her pretty bad. From the looks of the spattered blood leading out of the house, she’d lost quite a bit. He cursed himself for leaving her alone.

  “Good work, Troy,” he said, slapping his leg. “Save the girl. Lose the girl. All in a matter of minutes.”

  But what the heck had happened?

  One minute they were working on getting the police out here, and the next … The police. He knew instantly they had made a mistake. The cop he’d seen at the Black Dog Tavern was obviously working for Boonesborough. It was likely that there were quite a few in the department on the take.

  From the looks of things, she had struggled with the cop, gotten away, and run downstairs to find him. But he had been locked behind the secret door in the basement—in the soundproof drug room. He walked out on the porch and saw a pool of blood in the driveway. He cursed himself again for letting this happen to her.

  A trail of blood led from the screen door to the middle of driveway. This was probably where the cop had parked, and Troy was sure that he had taken Prosperity away from the house this time. The cop had been the one to kidnap and now probably kill the girl.

  He gritted his teeth and stared off down the driveway. It was the moment of truth. He’d been here before. Like Caesar crossing the Rubicon mountains, or something like that. There was no turning back now. Boonesborough and his cronies wanted a war. They were gonna get one.

  He took two steps back toward the house and saw a dark cloth lying in the driveway at his feet. He knelt down and picked it up with two fingers. It was soaking wet. In the dim light, he could see it was a bandana. Something threatened to spark in his memory, but his anger pushed it back down. He had work to do.

  Troy reached up behind a rolled up blanket in the top of the closet. The shoebox he had brought with him when he arrived in Martha’s Vineyard was still there. He brought it down and opened it up. It took less than twenty seconds for him to load the gun with his last five bullets. The M1911 had come to him courtesy of a package stowed in a private plane from Key West. His brother Ryan had sent him a gift and it looked like it was going to come in handy.

  Though he hoped he wouldn’t have to fire the gun, he slid the magazine home and wondered if five shots would do the trick. An image of the crates full of guns in the basement popped into his head and he almost went down to retrieve one. But this wasn’t Afghanistan. He decided his Colt Government would be all he would need.

  He clicked the thumb safety and slid the gun into his waistband behind his back. He walked back out to the driveway, unsure of where he was going, but decided the best place to start would be at the center of all the dirty deeds—McCorker’s campaign headquarters. It was just after eight o’clock, but he figured with the election coming up soon, it would be all hands on deck tonight.

  He hopped into Prosperity’s Volkswagen, started the car, and stomped the gas pedal. The car screeched and jerked, the driver’s side tires edging off the driveway. Mud and gravel flew up behind him, but he didn’t care. He turned into the road without slowing down, and a car swerved and honked as it passed.

  He raised his hand to apologize, but he didn’t really care. He took the quickest route to McCorker’s place and was there in less than fifteen minutes.

  As he expected, the office was open, but it wasn’t exactly the hubbub of activity that he had thought. Through the windows on the front of the building, he could see there were maybe four people hunched over desks with old-style telephone receivers pressed to their ears. Toward the back of the room stood two men, Boonesborough and McCorker. Boonesborough was wearing his trademark pale blue suit with a skinny navy tie. He had a look on his face that danced between anxiety and elation. He had one hand on his hip and the other dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  Next to him stood Frank McCorker, the candidate for Governor of Massachusetts. McCorker was standing at what reminded Troy of attention—as in ten-hut attention. His shirt was a sweat-stained, light brown. His pants were darker brown. His tie was gone and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. Apparently, he’d gotten a fresh haircut today looking toward television appearances.

  “Can I help you?” a girl near the front asked him as she stood.

  He held up his palm to stop her. His face must have looked pretty grim, because she squeaked and lowered her head to study her phone. He took two more steps, and the two men he was walking toward stopped their conversation. McCorker turned toward Troy and squinted his eyes. And the lightbulb went off in Troy’s head. He recognized McCorker.

  The shockwave that hit him was almost enough to knock him off his feet. He stumbled sideways and had to catch himself on a desk. The man sitting there stood and reached out to help him.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  “All good, son,” Troy tipped his cap.

  He had lowered it in a mock gesture to the man, but what he was really trying to do was cover his face from the man who was calling himself Frank McCorker.

  “Just trying to get up to my apartment,” Troy pointed at the stairway to the left of the two men. “I live upstairs and I really need to get some sleep.”

  “I hear ya,” the man took Troy by the elbow and led him toward the stairs. “We’ve all been burning the midnight oil around here.”

  He ushered through the door and Troy jogged up the steps. He opened the door to the one room apartment and slumped down on the cot in the corner.

  “If that don’t beat all,” he said to the empty room. “Never thought I’d see that fella again after the war.”

  The man who would be governor of Massachusetts was none other than his former commanding officer—disgraced and discharged commanding officer—in Afghanistan, Buff Summerton.

  “What in the world are you up to, Buff?” Troy scratched his chin.

  This whole thing had just taken a very unexpected turn. He would have to tread lightly now, knowing what he knew about former General Summerton. The man turned out to be a real slimeball in charge of that whole deal back in the war. It was obvious he was back at it again, but what was the play this time?

  He had come here to confront the men tonight, but now he wasn’t so sure. These were power players, and Troy realized he was going to need some help. But without help from his buddy at the CIA, he was going to have to find someone else. But who?

  He closed the blinds and laid his head back on the cot to give it some thought. He was asleep in seconds.

  The next morning he woke to the sound of a truck rumbling outside. He slid a finger through the blinds to see Country’s rusty truck—with his boat on a trailer behind—idling downstairs in front of the building. McCorker was leaning into the driver’s side window talking to him. When their conversation was through, he rapped his knuckles on the side of the truck and Country pulled away.

  “What are you doin’ here, Country?” Troy thought, watching the truck rumble down the road. “Just might have to find out.”

  17

  Santa Banks

  Santee “Country” Cooper
held the ice pack on his crotch as he navigated his boat toward Point Judith. Thankfully, the doctors at the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital hadn’t asked many questions about his ... injury. Thirteen stitches later, they had assured him that he would be just fine. But the lady doc had been very clear about one thing—no lifting. If he so much as carried a case of beer, the stitches could come loose and he’d be risking infection. She told him if he thought the first injury was painful, he was wrong. Infection in the testicles was a pain no one should ever experience. He agreed and walked out of the hospital with some new ice packs and a jockstrap-like device to hold them on his crotch.

  He knew now that he’d need all the help he could get for the big score coming. He couldn’t even help lift the dope or the guns, so he’d need old Banksy and maybe that Troy fella too. First stop would be Banks. He’d be the man that could help him do all of this without leaving any clues behind.

  It wasn’t more than an hour later when he cruised past the ferry dock at Point Judith and found a slip to pull into. He tossed his line to a grisled old fisherman, who tied him off.

  “How long you gonna park here, young man?” the fisherman asked, his Rhode Island accent dropping the R’s off park and here so it sounded like he said pawk heyah.

  “I’m a hopin’ not more’n an hour.” Country hopped out of his boat, his strange ice pack still strapped to his groin.

  “Got a little somethin’ goin’ on theyah, eh?” The man nodded toward the jock strap and grinned. “You young fellas nevah will learn to stay away from the hookas.”

  Country took a deep breath, intending to unload on the man, but he stopped, realizing that he didn’t care what this old guy thought.

  “Shut up, old man.”

  He stomped away to the sound of the man’s laughter behind him.

  Michael Banks answered the door and Country almost laughed. The man had changed a lot since his days at the Rhode Island PD. His hair and beard were long and white. He wore sunglasses—even though he’d been inside his house—and a bright red and orange Hawaiian print shirt. On top of his wiry mop of hair, he wore a straw cowboy hat that reminded Country of the one that other dude, Troy, was always wearing. It was like staring at a tropical version of Santa Clause.

  “Banksy,” Country said when the man had opened his door.

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” he said with a smile. “If it ain’t Santee Cooper. How the hell are you, boy?”

  “Um, I go by Country now,” he sniffed. “Seein’ as how I’m known by that other name and such. I prefer to keep a low profile.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Banks said, slapping him on the shoulder. “What can I do for you today, Country?”

  “You got a few minutes?” Country asked. “I’m working on a job, and as you might be able to see, I’m fairly injured and cain’t handle the loads myself right now.”

  “Ooh,” Banks said, studying the strap around his middle. “I do see that. What happened, son? You in a lot of pain?”

  “T’ain’t important right now,” Country sniffed. “But I’d like to fill you in on the work, see if you’re interested.”

  “Fine. Fine,” Banks said. “Have a seat in one of the rockin’ chairs. I’ll grab us a couple of lemonades.”

  Country started to protest. Lemonade? How ’bout an ice cold beer instead? But Banks was already headed back into the house. So, Country took a seat and waited. Not more than two minutes later, Michael Banks returned carrying a tray with two glasses filled to the top with ice and a pitcher of pale yellow liquid. He set the tray down onto a table between two rocking chairs and poured a glass for Country.

  “I’m good,” he said, holding up a hand to refuse the glass.

  “I insist.” Banks shoved the lemonade into his hand. “I make the best lemonade this side of the Mississippi. Maybe even the other side, too.”

  “Okay, sure.” Country took it, intending to just hold it until they were through talking.

  But Banks remained standing in front of him and folded his arms over his expansive chest.

  “Try it,” he said, nodding at the glass.

  Country opened his mouth to protest, but decided it was easier to just take a drink. He sipped the cool liquid.

  “There. Are you satisf—”

  Holy hell, thought Country. The lemonade filled his mouth with a tart, sour flavor that was balanced with just enough sugar to keep him from puckering uncontrollably. And as he swallowed, he felt the smooth, round flavor of—what was it? honey?— in the finishing gulp. He took another long sip. It was just as good, if not better, than the first drink. He emptied the glass and held it out for a refill.

  “Sonofabitch, old man,” he exclaimed. “You ain’t kiddin’! That’s the best damn lemonade I’ve ever done had.”

  Banks refilled Country’s glass and then filled his own. He sat down in the other rocking chair and sipped the lemonade.

  “I told you so.”

  They sat for a few minutes in silence, enjoying the warm ocean breeze and the cool lemonade. When they had almost emptied the pitcher, Country remembered what he had come for.

  “So, I got a job coming up,” Country started. “Let’s say ... a delivery job ... where I’ll need a couple of hands to help do the heavy lifting.”

  He pointed at his crotch as proof.

  “Heavy lifting?” Banks asked. “But I’m an old man, surely you can find some younger guys to help out with that.”

  Country shifted in his chair. “Actually, what I need you for is to um … keep us clean. What with all your knowledge of police investigations and such, I figure you can make sure it all goes down so no CSI could ever figure out what’s up.”

  “Oh, I see,” Michael Banks sighed.

  He set his glass down and interlocked his fingers over his belly. He leaned his head back, and to Country’s surprise, he fell asleep. The man was out, like snoring and drooling, unconscious. What the hell?

  “Hey, old timer.” Country leaned over and clapped his hands next to the man’s ear.

  Banks woke up with a snort. “Oh, jeez. I did it again, didn’t I?”

  “If’n you mean dozed off whilst I was gettin’ to the important details, then yeah, you did.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’d love to help you out, son. But you see, that’s the reason I was forced to retire early. It’s called narcolepsy and I’ve got a severe case. I can go from alert and awake to passed out and asleep in seconds.”

  Country stared at the man. He had no idea what the hell he was talking about. All he knew was he needed Banks to help and bad. He had to convince him.

  “Doctors said no boats for me anymore,” he continued. “That’s why I got that.”

  The tropical Santa Claus pointed to the driveway. Country followed his finger to see a black and chrome three-wheeled Harley Davidson motorcycle. It gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight.

  “She’s a beauty,” Country said. “But ain’t that just as dangerous?”

  Banks shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t let the docs take everything away, now can we?”

  “Let’s go take a look at her.” Country stood and walked down the steps off the porch.

  “Actually,” Michael said, following him, “I could use a hand. I gotta get that dang carburetor changed out before the big ride. Bunch of us have put together a charity ride we do from here to the hospital up in Providence. We all wear our Christmas getups and call it Santa’s Two-Stroke Sleighs. There’s over a thousand Santas in it now.”

  Country held his hands out. “Sure thing. What can I do?”

  Banks knelt down beside the bike, poking a finger in between two pipes. “Just hand me tools as I need them.”

  “Easy enough.”

  Country watched as the bearded man lay down on the ground and slid himself up under the bike.

  “Socket,” Banks said, extending his arm.

  He handed him the socket wrench. Country watched as the man turned the wrench two times and then fell asleep. He pulled his foot ba
ck to tap the man and wake him, but then a thought occured to him. Staring at his wiry beard and hair, he thought, he’s the perfect patsy. I can do this thing, spread a few hairs around, and get it all blamed on Banks. With his early retirement, he cain’t be makin’ much money. As the man snored under the bike, Country reached down and plucked a tuft of hairs out of his beard.

  “Ow, shoot!” he grabbed his chin. “Dadgum, I did it again, didn’t I?”

  “Yup. Sorry ’bout the beard. Figured it’d wake you.”

  Banks said, “Sure did.”

  He finished switching out the offending carburetor and reached up to hand it to Country. Country straddled over the man to grab it, but it slipped out of his hand and fell on Michael’s stomach as he was sliding out from under the bike. His reaction to the sudden hit to his gut made him kick his legs up into the air. Right into Country’s crotch.

  He hit him so hard with his booted feet, Country lifted off the air and fell backward. Pain lanced through his testicles, and he was sure he felt a few of the stitches let go. He let out a string of obscenities as he rolled around on the ground. Banks reached down and hauled him to his feet.

  “Oh, my God,” he said, as Country managed to gain his balance.

  He pointed at Country’s pants. A dark red stain was blossoming out from under his hands on his crotch. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to Country, who immediately bunched it up and stuffed it into his pants.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Country bobbed from toe to toe. “Ice. I need Ice.”

  “Ain’t got none left.” Banks sucked air across his teeth. “Used it all in our lemonade.”