Colton Banyon Mysteries 1-3: Colton Banyon Mysteries (Colton Banyon Mystery Book 20)

by Gerald J Kubicki

  “Well, we are really out of it now,” she replied. “When Sofia signed the release form, we earned a bunch of money and the museum will now get the book. What else is there?”

  “For one thing, there are the bank account codes in German. We have the codes, but not the bank locations. I can’t believe the efficient German, Major Gerut, would leave loose ends. Someone else has the locations of the banks, and I think it’s Hal Jones. He reacted when the name Gerut came up while we were looking at the book. I watched him. Also, Wolf told me he was the one. I think he means that Jones is a Nazi.”

  “Or the locations of the banks are hidden somewhere else in the book,” Loni commented.

  “It could be that, too,” he admitted. “What do we know about Jones and his lawyer?”

  “Not much, really,” she said. “But I bet the FBI has built big files on them. They are clearly white supremacists, and Jones is old enough to have lived in Germany before coming to America. He may hold the key to the codes.”

  “Then there is the recipe,” Colt noted. “Sofia says it really worked. But we don’t know what the seventh ingredient is, just the Chinese translation of ‘the weed that grows fast.’ I thought that all weeds grew fast. If the recipe does work, the impact on society would be tremendous. Who should be trusted with this secret? Certainly not Dr. Thorne. She is another mystery.”

  “Why do you say that, Colt?” Loni was slightly defensive about the good doctor.

  “First, she called you out of the blue. There are hundreds of people more experienced in handling auctions. But my name was found on papers on the desk of the old Japanese soldiers who had possession of the book. You and I are partners. Don’t you see the connection?”

  “I didn’t at first,” she admitted. “But now that you mention it, she didn’t need us to go to the FBI sting, which she already knew about. And she wasn’t even on the original distribution list.”

  “Right. Gamble told me that they had used her before, but hinted she had been forced on him for this mission. Why would the museum do that?” he said.

  “You know, fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money to pay to find a missing person. She must have been sure the job would be worth it. I just thought I had been a good negotiator.”

  “Did you notice that she was more concerned about the book then the papers inside?” Banyon asked.

  “Yes, of course. But she wanted the book for the exhibit. She didn’t know about the papers,” Loni retorted.

  “Or she knows about something else in the book,” Banyon speculated. “Then there is the Yakuza who followed us in China. Why follow us? And where is he now? They don’t just give up very easily.”

  “Your right,” Loni said. “There are a lot of questions about this case. If only I could get to a computer.”

  “But, you can, Loni. There is a cybercafé on the ship. It has the internet and everything.”

  “Let me at it,” she replied and jumped up as if to leave. She was fired up and itching to get back into the hunt.

  “Wait,” Colt ordered. “At least put your top back on.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Binh Handa was unaware that the couple had been discussing him. He had left his hidey-hole in search of food. He sat in the back corner of the large buffet room and ate. He was now dressed in shorts and an open-collared shirt with long sleeves to hide his tattoos. A baseball hat was pulled down on his head and his sunglasses were dark. Binh Handa had bought all the items onboard the ship. He simply walked into the commissary in his porter’s clothes; no one even noticed him. He kept the porter’s uniform with his stash of water and junk food. It might come in handy later, he thought.

  He knew he had to get off the ship, but also knew it would not dock until the morning of the day after tomorrow. The ship would dock in Mexico. He hoped he could get a flight back to Tokyo. He had plenty of time to kill. There was almost nothing he could do until it was time to leave the ship. All he had to do was remain invisible until then.

  Loni was now wearing the wrap that went with her bikini, but she still looked very sexy to Colt. He escorted her to the cybercafé and used his keycard to open an account. She sat down in front of one of the more private screens in a corner and began to type. Colt was quickly bored and told her he was going across the hall to the casino.

  “Just don’t be gone for too long,” she flirted.

  “And you will get my full attention later,” he responded. He backed away from her and noted the pout on her face. He knew that if he didn’t leave now, they would soon be reprimanded for indecent behavior.

  He wandered across the hall and into the casino. It had been a while since he’d visited a gambling establishment. Colt had always gambled, but after his divorce over seven years ago, he used gambling to forget his troubles. While he watched his money on the tables, he didn’t think about the bad things in his life. He was soon spending three or four days a week gambling and he was losing. He finally realized that he had become addicted and quit cold turkey. He wondered if he should tell Loni about it. His last girlfriend had hated the mere mention that he liked to gamble.

  Colt had grown up in a large family that always played games, especially poker. He didn’t have a gift for the bluffing required to be successful at cards, but he did have a gift for one game: craps. Many people considered craps to be an old man’s game. It required patience and nerve. To him, craps was like playing adult monopoly. There were over four hundred strategies, and you could win on any roll of the dice. It all depended on how you bet. He didn’t care about the money as much as he cared about having the winning strategy.

  He charged two hundred dollars on his room key and stepped up to the table. He had crossed one threshold today with success. Could he cross another? he wondered. When he was addicted, he always felt the need to place huge bets. He would win sometimes, but when the tables were cold, he kept betting and losing. He remembered the fever, the tunnel vision, the rationalization that he could win it all back. He remembered the signs of his addiction. His heart beat hard in his chest as he placed his first bet in several years.

  “Give me the inside numbers and a dollar each on the hard six and eight,” he told the croupier, dropping twenty dollars on the table. The point was nine.

  The first roll was two fours—a hard eight. He bet on the hard eight and a regular eight. “Press the eight. Press the hard eight and six, three dollars each.” He collected two dollars. He was still eighteen in the hole.

  The next roll was a four. No payout there. He was surprised that the craps lingo returned to him so easily

  The fourth roll was a five, another inside number. “Press,” he said, and collected two more dollars. It was now time for the magic fifth roll. Colt’s philosophy was that it took five rolls to make your money back. The fifth roll was a hard six.

  “Come down on the hard six and press the six,” he said. He collected twenty-seven dollars for the hard six, and slipped his original two hundred into his pocket. The next roll was an easy eight. “Come down on everything,” Banyon said. He collected fifty-seven dollars and threw a five-dollar chip in. “Snake eyes,” he said to the croupier.

  He watched the dice as they bounced off the back wall and heard the “stick” say, two.” Banyon collected one hundred and fifty dollars. He was up over two hundred dollars and the dice had only rolled seven times.

  He decided to sit out the rest of the roll. He felt he had made enough money on the current roller. He looked around the small casino in the hope of finding a waitress to bring him a beer. He found someone else instead. Banyon had only seen a plastic card with the man’s picture on it, but he was good at faces.

  Seated directly across from him at a blackjack table was the Yakuza. He had a Braves hat on and sunglasses, even though he was indoors. Banyon was sure it was him. Banyon turned his back and went to the cashier to cash out. He left the casino and went out onto the deck. When he was sure there was no one around, he spoke. “Wolf, why didn’t you tell me the Yak
uza was aboard ship?”

  “You didn’t ask.” The reply was immediate. “Besides, he means no harm to you.”

  Banyon was confused by the answer. “Wolf, what about Loni? Does he mean harm to her?”

  “She is a fine choice for you, Colt. No harm is meant for her. She is part of you. I could not let anything happen to her, either.”

  Suddenly aware than Wolf must be watching him all the time, he asked, “How much of what I do can you see, Wolf?”

  “Don’t worry,” Wolf said. “I am discreet. Who can I tell?”

  “Can you watch Loni even if I am somewhere else?” He was now concerned for her safety.

  “It has been my pleasure. I have watched you both from the start of my tenure here.”

  “Why?” Banyon asked.

  “She has always been part of you. You just didn’t realize it until recently.”

  “So why don’t you talk to her as well?”

  “She doesn’t believe in me. She is not predisposed to ghosts. She would never hear me.” The conversation with Wolf was shocking, to say the least. He was uncomfortable in knowing that Wolf could see everything he and Loni did, had done, and would do in the future.

  “Do you have to watch us all the time? Can’t you just turn off the portal or something?”

  “It is my curse, but I’ll shade my eyes if you ask,” Wolf replied. He then let out a laugh that was more sinister than funny.

  “Please, can you not watch us all the time?” Banyon asked.

  “For you, I will try.”

  Counting that reply as a small moral victory, Banyon turned to the more pressing issue. “Why is the Yakuza on the ship?”

  “He is trapped. He followed you onboard and couldn’t get off. He has made plans to leave in Cozumel. His mission has changed.”

  “And what’s his mission?” There was no answer. Banyon knew that Wolf could not tell him why the Yakuza was onboard because doing so would give Banyon a chance to change the future. Wolf could only tell him about things which already had happened.

  Banyon now wanted to find Loni. He would tell her about the Yakuza later. He decided not to inform her that Wolf could see everything they did, and not bore her about his past gambling habit. He couldn’t see any positive outcome of discussing those topics.

  Loni was still in the cybercafé, but her head was down on the desk. Colt panicked for one second. He then realized she was asleep. He knelt by her and softly stroked her hair. It was no longer in a ponytail. She awoke slowly and brushed her hair from her face. Her almond eyes were bloodshot.

  “Boy, do you look tired,” he remarked.

  “Colt, I have been awake for over twenty-four hours. Remember, I kept watch while you slept in the back of the jeep.” He did remember. It seemed like it had been weeks ago, so much had happened.

  “Maybe we should go back to the cabin and get some rest?” He wasn’t really thinking about rest, but going to the cabin was a good idea.

  She sat up and threw her small arms straight up, arched her back and stretched. The tiny top that she still wore almost burst from the strain. “That’s a good idea,” she replied. “First, let me tell you what I’ve been doing.”

  “Okay,” Colt said from his kneeling position. He could smell her scent.

  “I got us booked on a flight out of Cozumel to Pensacola, Florida. I cancelled the motel rooms in Mobile. I rented us another car so that we can drive to Mobile from Pensacola. The same car agency will go and pick up our car at the cruise terminal for us. When we reach the car agency, we can just hop in the jeep and head home. I also sent a message to Agent Gamble and requested information about Hal Jones. I sent an e-mail to Dr. Thorne to see if she got the fax. I then looked for a translation of ‘the weed that grows fast.’ I didn’t find any reference, so I e-mailed my parents. They might know someone who remembers the plant.”

  “Enough,” Colt said. “We have other things to do.”

  “You’re right,” she said as she looked at the clock. “It’s time for dinner. I can’t wait to wear my new dress.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  The Jacksonville River was dark and eerie at night. Duggan was dressed in black, tight-fitting clothing which reminded him that he needed to work out more. He put on face paint to scare his prey. His head was covered by an itchy and very hot ski mask. The rubber boat he paddled held night vision goggles, two guns, his favorite knife, a stun gun, and survival rations. A parabolic listening device was set in the bow. Duggan wanted to know if his target was moving about the house.

  He had dropped everything, as Billy Bond had ordered, and proceeded to Jacksonville to interrogate Hal Jones one more time. Bond had arranged a private plane for the short hop to Florida. Duggan had left his car, complete with new tires, at a small private airport east of Mobile. He’d landed in mid-afternoon and scurried around to buy his equipment.

  His new toys set him back, big time. Considering the devices he left in Chicago, the bug on the jeep, the stuff in his car, and the new equipment, Duggan was just about tapped out. He needed money soon. Bond had made the arrangements for the plane, but Duggan had to pay for the flight.

  As he paddled slowly towards the small dock, Duggan tried to conjure up memories of oppressive jungles and enemy infiltration. He wanted the adrenaline to kick in and help his tired muscles. All he got was a rumble in his stomach. It had been a long time since he had done any heavy military work. Now, he mostly just listened to people electronically. But this night was different. He would seek out his prey and pounce. He planned his interrogation procedure meticulously. Hal Jones would talk.

  The boat bumped the dock. Duggan eyed the ladder, but decided it would take too much effort to climb it, so he continued to paddle toward the sandy shore. The Jones house was set on ten acres of unkempt land. The house was hidden from view, and so was the boat. As soon as the boat touched hard ground, Duggan jumped out and put on the night vision goggles to scan the area. He soon discovered that the batteries were low and the goggles offered no enhanced view of the estate. He cursed his bad luck and tossed them into the boat. Next, he went to work on the parabolic listening device. He strained to set up the device and opened the round-faced antenna. Sweat trickled into his eyes as he set the dials and put on the earphones.

  The device worked well. Too well. At first, he thought there was an army in the woods between the house and his position on the beach. He heard marching, leaves rustling, and munching. He dropped flat to the wet ground. He whipped off the earphones and reached for his guns, but could hear nothing with his naked ear. He cursed. The mic was too sensitive. It was picking up the noises made by creatures in the forest. He realized he would have to carry the device through the woods and place it in a direct line to the house if he wanted to explore the inside. He reasoned that he needed all his considerable strength to battle the enemy and turned the equipment off. He still had his guns and knife; he would prevail. He opened the survival rations to help build his strength before venturing into the woods.

  The house was dark except for one light in a back window. Duggan crept up and peeked through the window. The old man was asleep in a rocker with a shotgun across his lap. He had bandages on several fingers and a walker near the chair. This will be easy, Duggan thought.

  He walked around to the back door and took out his knife. The door was as old as the house and Duggan thought he could jimmy the lock with the strong blade. After several frustrating minutes, something told him to try the doorknob. The door was unlocked. Duggan smiled like a predator as he turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. That was when he got his third surprise of the night.

  The shotgun was loaded with rock salt pellets. A string had been tethered to the doorknob. Opening the door had pulled the trigger. It was not meant to kill an intruder; it was an alarm.

  Duggan felt the searing pain of the rock salt in his chest, arms, and face. He ripped off the mask and screamed in agony. He was sure he would die on the kitchen floor. He could hear t
he sound of a walker shuffling towards the kitchen. Blood dripped into his eyes. He raised his arm to wipe it away. He then realized that he was not seriously hurt, even though he was in great pain.

  Hal Jones appeared in the doorway and pointed another shotgun at him.

  “I don’t like unannounced visitors,” Jones cackled. “Don’t worry. You’ll live. I wanted to talk to you, anyway. Otherwise, you would be dead now.”

  Duggan struggled to sit up and began to pluck rock salt from his wounds. “You gave us fake addresses.”

  “You were not very nice to me. I knew you wouldn’t kill me. It was just a little pain. Now I have the upper hand, eh?”

  “I am a true follower of the cause, just like you. I can prove it.” Duggan started to get to his feet.

  “Move slowly, my friend. This is not rock salt.” Jones moved the safety off the trigger.

  “I need to take my shirt off,” Duggan said.

  “You may rip it off. It has a lot of holes in it already,” Jones chuckled.

  Duggan began to rip the material and soon slid the shirt from his body. He slowly turned around and exposed the huge tattoo on his back. A swastika covered his entire torso. The word Aryan was printed on his lower back.

  “This can’t be,” Jones cried. “I’m the only one left.”

  “I’m an American Nazi. I work only for the cause.”

  “So, it’s true,” Jones said, confused.

  “What is true?”

  “There is a Nazi network in America.”

  Feeling more confident, Duggan pressed the point. “You were supposed to contact us decades ago. You have failed your mission. We have found you and demand the locations of the banks,” he lied.

  “But I never got the instructions,” the old man croaked.

  “We already have the codes and passwords. We just need the locations. It is your duty as a Nazi to comply.”

  Hal Jones was stupefied. He had been told that he would get instructions, but they never reached him. Now sixty years later, an American Nazi—one who had already tortured him—shows up in his kitchen. His mind raced to understand; the gun dipped; and Duggan pounced.