Sailors and Sirens

by Charles Dougherty

  Sailors and Sirens

  The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series

  C.L.R. Dougherty

  Copyright © 2019 by C.L.R. Dougherty

  All rights reserved.

  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 author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  rev. Aug 2019

  Contents

  Sailors and Sirens

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Mailing List

  A Note to the Reader

  About the Author

  Also by C.L.R. Dougherty

  Sample of Bluewater Killer

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Sailors and Sirens

  The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series

  Book 4

  Vigilante Justice in Florida and the Caribbean

  "That is the Island of the Sirens. Circe warned me to steer clear of it, for the Sirens are beautiful but deadly.

  They sit beside the ocean, combing their long golden hair and singing to passing sailors. But anyone who hears their song is bewitched by its sweetness, and they are drawn to that island like iron to a magnet. And their ship smashes upon rocks as sharp as spears."

  From Samuel Butler's translation of Homer's Odyssey, Book XII

  1

  The target's bedroom wasn't as dark as the grounds outside his mansion. I could see outlines of the furniture through the sliding screen door from the patio. The night was pleasant; the sliding door was open. Only the screen kept me outside.

  His perimeter security was good, but I dealt with that already; my client briefed me on it. The two guards were sleeping peacefully with the help of my tranquilizer darts. They would awaken in about an hour, no worse for wear and with no memory of having been unconscious. Besides the guards I immobilized on my way in, there was still a two-man security team inside the house. They were off duty. According to our intelligence, they stayed in their quarters until they were due to relieve the two outside. As long as I was quiet, they wouldn't be a problem.

  I reached into the pouch at my waist and retrieved a handkerchief soaked with silicone lubricant. Wiping it along the tracks at the top and the bottom of the sliding doorframe lessened the chance of noise when I opened the screen.

  I grasped the handle of the sliding screen and pushed gently, testing. The frame moved smoothly, without a sound.

  Stepping into the target's bedroom, I stayed to the side of the opening, partly in the shadow of the drapes. Once inside, I could tell the dim light in the room came from a nightlight in the adjoining bathroom.

  When my eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy light, I saw the woman. She wasn't supposed to be here, but there she was, sleeping alongside the target. I stood, watching the two of them sleep while I considered my options.

  I could abort the mission and let him live another day or two. Or I could consider the woman collateral damage. My client wouldn't care as long as I didn't leave her body behind, but I wasn't comfortable with killing the woman. Killing her and removing her body without awakening the sleeping guards would be tough. I didn't like either of my options.

  The injection I planned for the target would induce cardiac arrest, and it would leave no trace. He would die within a minute or two after I administered the drug, but he would be in agony for that brief period. Chances of the woman sleeping through his death throes were slim, and she might arouse the sleeping guards. I would have to kill her first to avoid that, but that might awaken the target. Then he might awaken the guards.

  Either way, killing both of them meant I might have to kill the two inside guards. I wouldn't have time to dispose of three bodies. Then there would be questions about the target's death, which wasn't acceptable.

  I was on the verge of deciding to abort the mission when the woman woke up.

  Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she cradled her face in her hands; her elbows rested on her knees. I wondered if she was hung over; that's the way she looked. She ran her hands through her hair for a few seconds.

  I held my breath when she got to her feet. She took a step in my direction, but then she turned. Shuffling into the bathroom, she closed the door. I saw the bathroom light come on under the bottom edge of the door as a vent fan started.

  Moving quickly, I rounded the foot of the bed. The woman turned down the sheets when she got up, and the target was lying on his back without a stitch of clothing.

  I stuck the needle into his femoral artery and pushed the plunger. He was stirring as I pulled the syringe away and dashed back outside. When I paused to close the screen, I heard him begin thrashing and screaming.

  The woman would hear him, too, but that was okay. She wouldn't know what happened. An autopsy would find that his death was from natural causes, which was according to plan.

  I ran across the yard to the security fence. When I climbed the fence on my way in, I dropped a grappling hook and its line inside the fence. I found them with no trouble, and I was over the fence within 30 seconds after administering the lethal injection.

  As I walked to my rental car, I took my phone from my pocket and called my client.

  "Yeah?"

  I recognized the voice; Aaron Sanchez was an Army buddy from years ago.

  "Is Elena there?" I asked.

  "You got the wrong number. No Elena here."

  "Sorry to disturb you," I said. "Have a nice night."

  "Thanks," Aaron said, disconnecting the call.

  The prearranged exchange told Phorcys my mission was a success. Aaron and I started using Elena Howard's name for coded messages when we were at Fort Benning together 20 years earlier. She wasn't a real person — just an imaginary barfly we used to tell stories about in the barracks.

  Ten minutes after my call to Aaron, I was in my rental car, driving a little under the speed limit as I negotiated the 30-minute trip to my hotel. I resisted the urge to hurry; I was expecting to find Mary, my lady friend and fellow assassin, waiting when I got there.

  Traffic was light heading into Miami at 3 a.m. Driving was easy. I passed the time thinking about how I came to be here and why I just killed a member of the President's cabinet at his Florida hideaway.

  Not long ago, Mary and I joined an organization that was formed by a few retired senior military officers who were disenchanted with the corruption at high levels in our government. Patriots to the core, they took their oath to uphold the constitution seriously. Principled and accustomed to putting their ideas into action, they decided to help the still-functional parts of our government sort out the mess.

  Before that, I was working for a small, secret group within the U.S. Department of Defense. I discovered that my boss of 20 years and several other high-level government officials were running a game of their own on the taxpayers' tab and using me to do their dirty jobs.

  Mary and I met as I was leaving Puerto Rico on one of my last missions for the DoD. At the time, I thought our meeting was by chance. She presented herself
as a seagoing hitchhiker, a footloose young woman looking for adventure. As I got to know her, there were things about Mary that made me nervous, but that's a story for another time.

  After a few days, I knew that there was a lot more to Mary than I thought when we met. She was on the run from the mob for one thing. And for another, she was a killer for hire. Three thugs caught her alone on my boat in Bequia and tried to kidnap her. Without batting an eye, she killed one of her assailants and escaped.

  Later, when we were in a bind and needed reinforcements, she made a phone call. Identifying herself as Medusa, she asked to speak to Phorcys. Phorcys worked magic on our behalf. Mary told me that Phorcys was an occasional client of hers, and one who owed her favors.

  Back then, Mary and I both thought Phorcys was a pseudonym for a person. Later, when Phorcys recruited me, we discovered that it was the name of an organization. When Phorcys approached me about joining them, I found out that several members were people I knew and trusted.

  I was invited to become part of Phorcys by a man named Mike Killington — Lieutenant General Michael Killington, U.S. Army, Retired. Affectionately known to his troops as "Killer Mike," he founded the covert group within the Department of Defense that was my employer until recently.

  Mike was responsible for my joining that DoD operation all those years ago, although he moved on before I transferred into the group. I knew him only by reputation until about ten days ago. Now he was my boss, or as he put it, I was one of his partners. But I knew better. He was my boss, no matter what he said.

  Another member was also a retired general with whom I was acquainted. Bob Lawson was running that secret operation within the DoD when Aaron and I joined it as junior officers.

  My old friend Aaron Sanchez was one of them, too. He became part of Phorcys shortly before I did. Aaron and I went through basic training and Officer Candidate School together over 20 years ago. From there, we both joined that secret group in the DoD. He was the intelligence officer I worked with for most of my career as an operative in the field.

  Mike Killington and Bob Lawson knew me from the old days. They realized that I was about to become the unwitting instrument of corrupt bureaucrats, my former boss among them, so they sent Mary to look after me, but I only learned that later.

  Given our similar skills, it wasn't a surprise that Mary and I formed a bond beyond that of ordinary coworkers. We wrapped up our separate assignments and were ready for a break when Phorcys came clean with us. Thinking we had some free time, we were contemplating an extended cruise on my sailboat, Island Girl. Then we got drafted into Phorcys. Only ten days ago, that was. It seemed longer. Things were happening quickly.

  Phorcys gave us a list of targets; Mary left Tortola for Florida six days ago. She was supposed to do preliminary reconnaissance. I stayed behind in Tortola to get the boat ready for long-term storage. We didn't know when we might get to begin that cruise, but I hoped we would meet up this evening in my room.

  I was a little worried as I took the exit for my hotel. My last contact with Mary was when she landed in Miami six days ago. I got a brief note from her in the blind email drop we used, telling me she arrived safely and would be in touch later.

  Before she left Tortola, we agreed to meet tonight at the nondescript place where I was staying. I hoped her long silence didn't mean trouble, but in our line of work, you never knew what might happen.

  Back when Mary and I set up tonight's rendezvous, I didn't yet know about the mission I just completed. It was assigned to me this morning as soon as I arrived. A lot could have happened with Mary in the last few days, too. Maybe she was waiting for me, and maybe she wasn't.

  Flipping the blinker on, I turned into the parking lot of the seedy hotel that billed itself as "a part of Old Florida." I checked in earlier this afternoon and scoped out the room, but I left my duffle bag in the car in case my plans changed. For all I knew, after I carried out my first mission, I might be on the run. Killing the Secretary of Defense wasn't exactly a low-profile hit, but I got away clean.

  Hoping to see a light on in the window of my room, I was disappointed. I left a key with the desk clerk for Mary, but the window was dark. Maybe she was asleep; it was almost 4 a.m.

  Retrieving my duffle bag from the trunk, I locked the rental car, pocketing the keys as I fumbled for the room key. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door, stepping into the vestibule. Dropping my bag, I closed the door behind me.

  I entered the room, feeling for the light switch. Blinded by the bright ceiling light, I blinked and found myself staring down the muzzle of a Colt Model 1911-A1. Forty-five caliber was not quite a half-inch, but it looked big enough for me to fall into.

  "Hello, Finn," the man holding it said.

  2

  Before I reacted, he lowered the muzzle and laid the pistol on the bed where he was sitting. He extended his hand. "I wasn't sure who was coming through that door," he said.

  "Pointing a pistol at me is a good way to get yourself killed," I said as I shook his hand.

  "I know. I figured it was worth the risk, given the situation. You really think you could have taken me?"

  "No doubt in my mind. The time you took to say 'Hello, Finn' gave away your advantage. I could have taken the pistol by the time you finished."

  "Why didn't you, then?"

  "I recognized you, Aaron. Lucky for you. Once I start moving, there's no pause button. It's muscle memory."

  "You still look the same, Finn; just a little weather-beaten. And I have recent pictures of you. But I've changed a lot, and you haven't seen me in almost 20 years. How did you recognize me so quickly?"

  "Two things: your voice and the scar."

  "Okay, I can believe the voice part; we spoke on the phone half an hour ago. But I don't even notice the scar in the mirror anymore; I had plastic surgery to get rid of it. It's there; I can find it if I look for it, but…"

  "When that guy cut your throat, I was there, Aaron. The plastic surgeon did an okay job, but I knew where to look, once I heard the voice. Why are you here?"

  "We have a problem with the woman."

  "She was in the bathroom the whole time," I said. "She couldn't have seen me. As far as she knows, he had a heart attack, like we planned."

  "What are you talking about, Finn?"

  "The woman in bed with Sanders when I got there; I was trying to decide whether to waste her or abort the mission when she got up and went in the bathroom."

  "There was a woman there with him? Is that what you're saying?" Aaron frowned. "His wife was supposed to be in Washington."

  "Yeah, I didn't figure her for his wife. She was too young and hot. At least if your taste runs to strippers."

  Aaron laughed at that. "I bet his Secret Service detail is going nuts trying to figure out how to spin that one. Or somebody up the line is."

  I waited until his chuckles died down. "What woman were you talking about, then?"

  "Mary," Aaron said. "Or whatever name she's using at the moment."

  "What about her?"

  "She's off the reservation. You got any idea where she is?"

  "No," I said, feeling my brow scrunch up. "Last I heard from her was when she landed here six days ago."

  "What did she say then?"

  "That she was on the ground and in a hurry. She would be in touch later. But I haven't heard from her."

  "You left a key for her downstairs, Finn."

  "I did?"

  "Don't bullshit me, man. Why are you doing that?"

  "Getting even for the pistol in my face."

  "I told you I wasn't sure who was coming through that door."

  "You thought it would be Mary? Were you going to shoot her, or what?"

  "I knew it wasn't her. We paid the desk clerk to take a break; I've got somebody on the desk. He would have called me if Mary picked up the key, okay?"

  That made sense. It was what I would have done, in Aaron's position. "Yeah, okay."

  "So,
tell me, Finn. Why did you leave a key for her?"

  "Before she left Tortola, we set up a rendezvous here for tonight."

  "How did you pick the time and place?"

  "She picked it. It was a week after she left. I already knew I would be in Miami. She said she used this place before."

  "But neither of you could have known what Mike would ask you to do between then and now."

  "No, but we have backup plans, Mary and I. Not our first time around the block, remember?"

  "Where's your next rendezvous spot then? And when?"

  "Not so fast, Aaron. I've been open with you so far. Show me the same courtesy. What's going on here? You and Mike are the ones who sent her into my life. I didn't just pick her up and spring her on you. Now give."

  "That's fair enough, but I'm not sure what to tell you. We didn't even know she arrived in Miami safely. No check-in, nothing. We've left her messages, but she's not responding."

  "Uh-huh," I said. "I don't know what to say, Aaron. Any chance somebody knew she was coming?"

  "You mean besides me and Mike?"

  "Yeah. Anybody else?"

  "No," Aaron said. "I mean, Bob Lawson probably knew; Mike would have told him. You thinking we might have a leak?"

  "Hey, it happens to the best of us, sometimes."

  "No. No way. Neither of us told anybody, or even mentioned her where we could have been overheard. I'm sure Bob didn't give her away. How did she make her travel arrangements?"