by Vince Milam
The Caribbean Job:
A Case Lee Novel
Book 3
By Vince Milam
Published internationally by Vince Milam Books
© 2018 Vince Milam Books
Terms and Conditions: The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
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Other books by Vince Milam:
The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 1
The New Guinea Job: A Case Lee Novel Book 2
Acknowledgments:
Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com.
Vicki for her love and patience. Mimi, Linda, and Bob for their unceasing support and understanding.
We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.
Chapter 1
A pinpoint of light on a Nassau night signaled bad news. The button-sized red dot wavered across the casement window’s glass pane. It hovered, sought, and flashed toward my half-out-the-window body. A laser gun sight. With a high-powered weapon on the other end.
A frantic split-second fling backward accompanied a brittle crack as bullet pierced glass. No boom, no loud report. The killer used a silencer.
I hard-smacked the tile floor, tumbled upright, and pulled my own silenced pistol. A quick leap tucked me among the room’s steel cabinets. Hidden, surrounded with dead bodies. Trapped in the massive old Princess Margaret Hospital’s first floor morgue in downtown Nassau, Bahamas. Great. Just freakin’ great.
This guy wasn’t a pro. Sloppy work. As a former Delta Force operator, I’d know. And my weapon was drawn. Unlike this clown I wouldn’t miss. Advantage, Case Lee.
Another mental warning flag waved. This guy had a partner. Professionals worked solo. Clean hits, leave the scene. Non-pros brought a sidekick, for whatever reason. Support, insurance, bolstering of courage—the rationale didn’t matter at the moment. What did matter was a second hitter lurked somewhere.
A simple job, Case. Investigate the deaths of two high-net-worth individuals. Rich dudes. Low profile, baby. Safe and easy. Man, I was an idiot.
The morgue door stood five paces distant and led to a quiet hallway. The hospital crowd was minimal this late at night, huddled and waiting near the emergency room entrance. Several options presented. Wait for the shooter to show at the window, his sidekick a dangerous unknown. Or move, hunt. Delta training dictated the latter.
A breeze waved the oleanders outside the window while distant palm fronds rustled in the Caribbean night. The hum of refrigerated body drawers, chemicals, and still death filled the air. The Glock maintained an aim toward the open window as rapid steps gained the door. Cracked open, a quick glance confirmed the large old colonial building’s hallway stood empty. A silent slip through, the door shut behind me.
The hospital’s morgue area held dim illumination late at night, every fifth overhead incandescent light lit. It made for a dark cavernous setting. Cones of light as spaced circular stages in both hallway directions. The remnant aroma of a disinfectant mopping came as a welcome relief after the confined odor of death.
The pistol slid into my jeans front waistband, covered with the un-tucked shirt. I might encounter hospital staff during my hunt. The hidden pistol would avoid setting off verbal alarms. But I could produce the weapon, aim, and fire within a half second if needed—a strong likelihood.
I opted for the shorter hallway segment toward the building’s rear. Around the darkened corner, exit doors. But I’d depart the hospital through another window before that option. Approaching footfalls altered my plans.
He turned the dark hallway corner, twenty-five paces away. Ubiquitous blue-green hospital scrubs, no weapon evident. I continued, prepared for a smile and nod at a passing physician or nurse. Friendly, benign, presenting little reason for recall if this hospital staff member was later questioned. Questions concerning dead hit-men.
A large man, his shoulders sloped. A surgeon, maybe. A career spent leaning over an operating table. The dim light created a challenge discerning more detail. But as we approached each other he passed through a cone of light and the danger claxon sounded. No natural arm movement accompanied his gait, hands locked along his side. As we closed distance it became clear he’d pulled the scrubs over his pants. And he wore leather sandals. Not hospital footwear. My shooter’s partner. Had to be.
I stayed left. Bahamians drove and often walk left. I timed my stride so we’d meet in the shadowed area between lit circular stages. Five paces apart, then three. The internal steel spring compressed, muscles tightened, nostrils flared. We locked eyes, any pretense of a casual greeting long gone as the scene signaled killing conflict. At the final step we came abreast and he shifted toward me, attacked. A leftie. Too quick a move for the half-second pistol draw. The knife, hidden against his wrist, flicked dark and keen. He snorted an exhale and grimaced as the well-practiced motion drove the blade toward my neck. A sucker strike. But he’d never tried the killing move against a former Delta operator. Too bad for him.
The natural reaction, the human reflex—jump away. And get killed. His side-step and momentum relied on this reaction. Years of training and real-life experiences propelled me toward him. Inside his move. Right hand grabbed his knife wrist, left fist drove two explosive punches into his throat. The first damaged his windpipe, the second crushed it.
A half-second interlude. One of those weird pauses within extreme violence, a split-second mental collection point. I maintained a wrist grip. Eyes bulged, his free hand cradled his throat, mouth open as lungs sought air through a damaged pipe. Condensed, hyper-fast thoughts drove action. A dim hospital hallway. A shooter somewhere at my back. A simple push-away, Glock pulled, a silent head shot a quick and sure option. Drag the body into a nearby office.
But scattered blood and brain matter threatened a clean exit. It would draw attention from any casual passer-by. And my exit strategy consisted of a boat. I required lead time, a slipping away. And the hitter with the laser site remained in play, the clock ticking. So I’d take this guy out without a mess, without blood and with minimal struggle.
The knife first. I twisted his wrist and slammed a knee into the elbow of the knife-wielding arm. The long blade clattered on the hard tile floor. Noise. Damn. A lightning-quick slide behind him as frantic gasps for air consumed his being. I applied a sleeper hold, restricting blood flow to the brain via the carotid arteries. He was unconscious within seconds. I held it longer—much longer—than necessary, eyes down the long hallway seeking movement. All quiet. While I stood there exposed, squeezing the last bit of life from a guy. Not good.
I dragged him across the hallway. An unlocked door opened a cleaning supply closet. Dumped him inside. With a crushed trachea and too-long restriction of his carotid, he wouldn’t wake up. Nasty stuff, but the guy had tried to kill me.
The hallway remained still. No alarms, no alerts. I retrieved the dropped knife, backtracked, and entered an empty office several doors down from the morgue. An office with a window. The colonial-style opening proved well-maintained—the hinges silent as I cracked one side of the casement window and waited.
Slipping away was an option considered and rejected. Such action left a killer with a laser-sited weapon after me. And I was headed toward the docks. The shooter, not finding me dead or wou
nded, might guess as much. I didn’t relish the idea of a small electric-red dot seeking my back while exiting this Caribbean island. So I waited, pistol drawn, and listened through the open window to near-area silence. It wouldn’t last. A few minutes passed since his attempted kill shot. The shooter would follow up, creep to the morgue window, and check the outcome. Freakin’ amateur.
Chapter 2
Breaking into Caribbean island morgues wasn’t a hobby of mine. Part of the gig. The investigation of untimely and so far unrelated deaths of two wealthy guys—Bettencourt and Whitmore. Earlier that day I’d left the Abaco Islands—second home and last-breath location of Mr. Joseph Wilkins Bettencourt, dead rich dude. I boated the four hours to Nassau and enquired at the morgue about tissue samples from the recently expired Bettencourt. When an American citizen dies in a non-US Caribbean island, diplomatic protocol dictates delivery of the coroner’s autopsy report with tissue samples. The morgue personnel lied about possession of any such samples. Facial expressions, body movement, lack of eye contact. You can tell. You can always tell.
Bettencourt died at his house on Abaco, the body transported to Nassau, capital of the Bahamas. A coroner’s report issued—death due to natural causes. Heart failure. The body cremated. They’d tossed his ashes into Nassau harbor, as per the instructions of his less-than-bereaved widow, Mrs. Elizabeth Bettencourt of Fifth Avenue, New York City.
A phone call to Mrs. Bettencourt several days earlier kicked off this little Caribbean jaunt.
“Mrs. Bettencourt?” I asked, voice low and empathetic. She’d suffered a deep personal loss. “My name is Jack Tilly, with the Providence Insurance Company.”
The name held a solid, upstanding ring. Jack Tilly. Something about an insurance claim.
“Talk with my lawyers,” she said. Ice slid and clinked inside a highball glass as she finished off the drink.
“Yes, ma’am. I will. I have their information,” I lied. “But due diligence dictates a short chat with you. First and foremost, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I’m not.” High-heels struck marble floor, a silent pause as she crossed over a rug—oriental and expensive no doubt—followed with more footfalls. Additional ice plopped in her glass along with the glug of poured liquor.
All righty then. A less than close bond between married partners. “Well, okay. May I ask you if your husband was ill? Any health issues?”
“He was a sick bastard. More so in the last ten years.”
Bettencourt was sixty three when he died.
“Okay. Sick as in poor health?”
“No. Speak with my lawyers. I don’t want to think about him.”
“Okay. I will. But allow me to ask you about the disposition of the body. Did you request cremation?”
Cremated bodies hid a host of ill-intents. More heel-on-marble footfalls and an aside command. “Get off there, Bovy!” Her dog or cat. A lighter flicked as Mrs. Bettencourt lit a smoke. An easy visual—drink and smoke in hand, looking down upon Central Park. And, dependent upon personal character, looking down upon her lessers scuttling about.
“Mrs. Bettencourt? The disposition of his remains?”
She took a drag and exhaled.
“A hospital down there contacted me. I told them to toss him in the ocean.”
“I take it they declined your suggestion.”
“The next option was cremation. So I said yes.”
“And they sent you the ashes?”
“No. Flushing them down the nearest toilet comprised my second suggestion.”
True love. A marvelous wonder.
“I take it they declined this suggestion as well.”
“They said they’d dump his ashes in the harbor. Which suited me just fine.”
“Mrs. Bettencourt, did your husband have any enemies? People who would do him physical harm?”
“Speak with my lawyers.” She hung up.
Fine. An accepted part of the deal. This held the earmarks of a low key investigation. High-net-worth deaths and ‘go talk with my lawyer’ admonitions. No skin off my rear end. It was a dramatic departure from my past engagements. A safer, less violent vocation.
My last two jobs delivered physical and mental wounds. Bullet holes, shrapnel, an arrowhead driven into my chest. And head flotsam. The psychological scars of engaging my retired Delta brothers in violent activities with nebulous outcomes. A personal promise made—no more high-danger engagements from my client. A promise broken right out of the Caribbean chute. I clearly hadn’t dialed in the low-key and safe concept.
A Miami flight followed the short phone call with Elizabeth Bettencourt about the disposition of her late husband’s remains. Fine by me—cruising the Caribbean sat a far distance from hard times. I leased a sea cruiser with a false ID and a credit card tied to a Cayman Islands bank. Procured the silenced Glock and scoped semi-automatic rifle through underground contacts. Visited a Miami quick-print. They set to work creating business cards and a three-foot wide banner, plastic, with Dawn Reckons in flowing black script. While the print shop performed their magic, a brief shopping trip stocked the larder with necessary items. White marine tape, a marine GPS unit, groceries, latex gloves, and Grey Goose vodka—my drink of choice.
The rented vessel afforded two advantages. One, an exit strategy. The first thing I focused on when entering an operational area was a way out. When it hit the fan, such efforts saved me more than a few times. And second, I could arrive well-armed. Locked and loaded. Credit my vocation, the bounty on my head, or a healthy dose of paranoia. Take your pick.
The boat leasing company representative smiled and waved as I left the boat slip and headed east. Once out of sight and well offshore, I switched to autopilot and handled a few chores. The white tape covered the hull’s registration numbers and secured the plastic banner across the stern. It covered the boat’s actual name, Sundancer. The name change wouldn’t pass close inspection, but would do at a distance. Unplugged the boat-equipped GPS so it could no longer acquire navigation information or store my route and whereabouts. Activated my own GPS unit. Jack Tilly of the Providence Insurance Company traveled incognito.
I wadded up a paper grocery bag and tossed it overboard and cut the engines. Once I’d drifted a hundred yards away, sighted the rifle’s scope, popping the paper bag. It took five shots until I was satisfied with the weapon’s set-up. Mr. Tilly was good to go. Then made a vodka-rocks drink and started in earnest the six hour leg for Bettencourt’s Bahamian getaway—the Abaco Islands.
The Caribbean Sea. About as fine a stretch of salt water as anywhere on this good earth. Water with such clarity it amazed. Cobalt blue washed the deepest portions, azure as the water shallowed. And celeste blue, inviting as a dream, washed beaches that ranged from white sand to black rock. Take a handful of pebbles and sow them across a sandbox with a single toss—the resulting placement would resemble the geography of the scattered islands. Islands as independent countries, and islands as territories of the US, UK, France, and the Netherlands. Each unique, each with their own flavor and feel. But with common denominators: warm water, sunshine, stunning scenery, wonderful people. A person could do a heckuva lot worse than working a Caribbean job.
A job, a contract, offered by my client. A murky outfit called Global Resolutions, based in Zurich. International arrangers for below-the-radar activities. They would select requests from business, government, or private clients. Dole them out to the appropriate contractor. I never knew the payee, the initiating client, and they would never know me. The lone exception—my last job in New Guinea. I’d been hired and played by the Company. The CIA. But under normal circumstances, I performed a job, filed a report, and collected my fee. And Global Resolutions took full advantage of my Delta background, with gnarly-leaning gigs offered.
After New Guinea I’d explained to Global Resolutions, via encrypted messages, the termination of high-risk jobs. Finito, Benito. So when this offer came over the transom, it held sedate sleuthing promise. Two dead rich gu
ys. One in the Caribbean, one on Long Island. No known foul play. A walk in the park, Case.
Chapter 3
It was simple enough finding Bettencourt’s place on Abaco Island. Thank you, internet and Google Earth. Large sturdy docks extended from the expansive lawn. The mansion, seashell pink, dominated the immediate surroundings, which included a large swimming pool. I never understood the pool thing. Crystalline Caribbean waters—seventy steps from your back door. As I secured my vessel a young man strutted down the lawn and yelled toward me.
“This is private property!”
I waved back, smiled, and completed the tie-up. A small flotilla of jet skis bobbed nearby. And a very classic and very expensive mahogany-decked “dinner boat.” A requirement when one wished to dine at a nearby shoreline restaurant and conveyance via vehicle or, God forbid, walking was simply too pedestrian. I didn’t begrudge the super-rich their toys—hell, I’d like owning a dinner boat—but there came a point where things left the realm of “Man, that would be sweet,” and drifted into plain silly.
The young man stomped onto the pier and repeated his earlier statement.
“I’m well aware of this property’s situation,” I said. “Jack Tilly. Providence Insurance Company. Arriving at Mrs. Bettencourt’s request.”
A large lie and great kick-off point.
“What does that bitch want?” Nineteen, maybe twenty, he stood, hands on hips. Crisp linen pants ruffled with the breeze. Bling—diamond-encrusted bling—hung from around his neck. A bright orange scarf hid the chains. A loop earring completed the ensemble.
“The bereaved widow asked for an assessment of her Abaco holdings.” I pulled an embossed business card from my shirt pocket and handed it to the kid. Amazing what a good print shop could do for you. Very official, very professional, and very fake. The card listed a false address in Omaha, Nebraska. The phone number fed an electronic forwarding exchange, encrypted, and would ring my satellite cell phone. Until I turned off the exchange.