Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3)

by John H. Cunningham

  I turned to Thedford, who held his hands up.

  No keys.

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  Ziiinnnggg!

  I ducked.

  Someone was shooting at the hinges on the door. Bullets ricocheted around the little room.

  The launch doors for the boats were now fully open. The harbor looked like an endless void lit only by moonlight shining on the scattered white hulls of boats at anchor.

  I dove for the metal box, grabbed the rest of the keys, and jumped in the boat with Thedford. There was one on a small orange float—it fit the ignition!

  A loud screech sounded and the door into the room collapsed in toward us, blocked only by the cart of scuba tanks.

  The boat’s engine fired up.

  There was a rope attached to a pulley in front of the boat. I aimed the machine pistol at it, pulled the trigger, and shredded the rope—the boat slid backwards as the door into the room fell to the side. The boat splashed into the water, which muffled the sound of revving twin props.

  I pulled the throttles into reverse and my rope-burned palm stuck to the handle. The boat jumped backward and water sprayed up over the transom. A man pushed the door aside and aimed a gun at us. I pointed the machine gun toward the door and fired a burst at the scuba tanks—

  WHOOSH!

  A concussion of air and chunks of fiberglass, loose flippers, masks, and debris blasted out through the opening our boat had just vacated.

  A swim fin hit the bow of the boat with a thwack and nearly knocked me to the deck.

  I shoved the throttles forward.

  “Get down!” I yelled.

  The bow jumped as we shot ahead. I steered us toward the yacht’s fantail, searching for the boys. Galey’s men ran toward the stern. I reached the end but there was no sign of Diego or Boom-Boom.

  Dammit!

  I spun the wheel, cut behind the yacht, and started up the port side—up toward where I’d climbed the rope—

  “Reilly!”

  Up above were Diego and Boom-Boom, running and waving from the top deck.

  I pulled back on the throttles.

  “Jump!”

  Both men hurled themselves over the side and landed with huge splashes in front of us. It was a five count before they surfaced, arms waving as they swam to the boat.

  WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!

  Machine gun fire slapped through the water and caught the transom of the speedboat.

  The second Diego and Boom-Boom were aboard I pressed the throttles forward and the speedboat jumped ahead.

  “That the guy?” Diego said.

  “You see any of my men?” Boom-Boom said.

  I shook my head.

  WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!

  I ducked. “Can you do something about that?!”

  Diego pointed his Kimber up toward the deck of the yacht and fired three rounds right next to my head—my hearing in that ear instantly became a loud ring.

  We blew past the stern of the yacht and I cut the wheel hard to port. A fusillade of gunfire erupted behind us. I whipped the wheel and swerved figure-S turns, hoping to evade the bullets that streaked past us.

  One cracked the windshield.

  “Stay down!”

  I tossed the machine gun I’d taken from the yacht to Boom-Boom, who immediately returned fire. Diego held the Kimber with both hands but with the increasing distance had no chance of hitting anything.

  The sound of another engine rose above the steady drone of our boat’s inboard—over my shoulder I spotted the sister-ship to this one slicing through the harbor toward us, our S-turns making it easy for them to close the gap.

  “Is Crystal okay?” John Thedford looked up at me from the bottom of the boat.

  “Just worried about you,” I said.

  “Jet skis coming from the other side of the yacht! Four o’clock!” Diego pointed out to our side. A quick glance caught muzzle flashes and four jet skis.

  Thedford got up on one knee, Galey’s pistol in his good hand, and started firing at the oncoming jet skis.

  The speedboat gained behind us. Two of the jet skis swerved toward the western point of the island to cut us off if we tried to head toward Jost Van Dyke.

  Another round hit the transom and launched splintered fiberglass into my back.

  “Hang on!”

  I cut the wheel hard to port and dodged behind a moored line of catamarans, carving a path between them—

  Whoa!

  The boat came to a near stop. Boom-Boom and Diego crashed into the dashboard.

  “We caught an anchor line!”

  The engine whined, the tachometers surged into the red, but we went nowhere—

  “Throw it in reverse!” Boom-Boom said.

  The gears ground as I jerked the throttle lever backwards. The tachs redlined and I shoved it forward. The boat leapt ahead—the guys fell backward just as the other speedboat turned the corner, so close I could see the driver’s goatee.

  They fired at us.

  The mooring lines were impossible to see in the darkness. I swerved through catamarans and emerged between them at Soper’s Hole marina. Another roar exploded—a jet ski spewing gunfire was headed right at us. I pulled back on the throttle and the speedboat gained from behind—

  “The hell you doing?” Diego said.

  “I’m out of ammo!” Thedford yelled.

  Gunfire from the front, more from behind—they closed fast. Our boat was turning to Swiss cheese.

  “Reilly!” I didn’t know who’d said it.

  I cut the wheel to starboard, gunned it. The chase boat and jet ski were fifty feet apart, heading full speed toward each other and spraying bullets—

  The jet ski tumbled. Its driver flew through the air.

  “Nice move!” Boom-Boom tossed the machine gun over the side, its clip empty.

  I continued in a wide circle and the chase boat followed.

  I cut the wheel hard away from where the jet ski had been. The speedboat followed us.

  “Watch out!” Boom-Boom shouted.

  I turned just in time to avoid an anchored sloop, spun the wheel back the other way then dodged behind another. Boats were everywhere—we lost sight of the chase boat.

  “Valentine, I hope you’re calling for help!” I yelled toward the moon.

  I was in the groove of cutting between the anchored boats, as if it were a ground course chicane back when I used to compete in Porsche Club rallies—

  A flash, then acetylene agony—my left shoulder!

  It knocked me sideways. A screech of fiberglass-on-fiberglass sent splinters everywhere as we sideswiped a dark green ketch.

  I fell to a knee.

  “Look out!” Boom-Boom said.

  I spun the wheel just in time to see another jet ski streak past ten feet away, spraying machine gun fire over us as he bounced off our wake—

  That face!

  The jet ski driver dressed in black and soaked to the skin with his hair flying back was the same guy who tried to grab Crystal back in Key West.

  My left arm fell limp. Blood soaked my shirt.

  “Give me the wheel!” Boom-Boom said.

  I fell onto the floor next to Thedford.

  “You’ll be okay.” He put his bare hand on my shoulder and applied pressure. Pain surged like he’d jabbed a lit road flare in the open wound.

  We flopped back and forth on the deck as Boom-Boom zigged and zagged. Nausea blurred my vision—more gunfire erupted behind us, it sounded close but my sense of hearing faded in and out.

  The waves and defensive driving bounced me forward, halfway under the dash into the cuddy cabin, where I spotted a manna from heaven.

  In a corner of my mind I knew I was losing a lot of blood. Hell with it—I clenched my teeth against the pain, then reached up and grabbed the AK-47 clipped to the ceiling of the small cabin.

  Boom-Boom jerked the boat around like a bucking bull—I rolled and bounced between the seats until I tumbled to the transom, now peppe
red with holes and fiberglass hanging loose.

  Boom-Boom’s eyes lit up when he saw the AK-47 clutched in my arms.

  “Get ready! They coming up on the right!” I peered up over the edge, surprised at our close proximity—the chase boat flickered like a silent movie between the immobile sailboats.

  The chase boat turned hard and came right at us, muzzle flashes blazing. I lifted the AK-47. Another row of boats were anchored to our right creating a narrow passage.

  I scrambled onto my right knee—my vision blurred for an instant—and squeezed the trigger. The Russian machine gun jumped in my arms. The chase boat was close, coming in from the right. Diego fired his Kimber—the boat veered right into my line of fire, its windshield shattered.

  The boat cut right, flipped onto its side, and slammed straight into the transom of an old Grand Banks motor yacht.

  WHOOSH!

  The fireball blew me onto my back and the stars in the sky swirled like pinwheels.

  “Yeah, mothefucka!” Boom-Boom yelled.

  Our boat slowed to a stop. I pulled my knees together and lay in the fetal position. Warm water ran down my chest—were we sinking? It was sticky—

  No, it was blood. Mine.

  Diego appeared above me and pressed down on my shoulder, his expression serious.

  I heard the gears click and we started forward. There was talking, but I couldn’t understand what was being said.

  WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!

  A new roar of gunfire sounded and Diego fell on top of me. I tried to push myself up, but my left arm felt dead, as if I’d slept on it for a week. The puddle of blood on the deck was big, and the sound of stereo machine gun fire sounded from both sides of the boat.

  My eyes focused on Thedford, who was no longer wearing a shirt—he was bent over, pressing down on Diego’s blood-soaked form.

  Our boat swerved from side to side. Boom-Boom was peering over the dash and looking like a homeboy in a Cadillac. The jet skis raced after us, bouncing in our wake and unable to get off a clean shot. The boat swerved to the left and I rolled over, smashing my face on the AK-47.

  I tried to reach for the gun, but my arm wouldn’t respond—and the effort sent electric shocks through my body.

  I heard a sound—a large bird flew over us—

  A bird?

  I heard another roar—engines. A second dark shape swooped over us.

  A roar blotted out the boat and the jet skis that had initially headed to the West End to cut us off. My eyes fluttered and my vision came into focus.

  Boom-Boom was bleeding from the forehead. He was on the edge of the driver’s seat, his arm wrapped through the steering wheel, bouncing in rhythm with the waves.

  Was our driver conscious?

  I squirmed forward, past Diego, where Thedford pressed down on his wound. He was saying something but I couldn’t make it out.

  “Boom-Boom, you okay?” I said.

  He didn’t budge. A wave of nausea surged over me.

  Now on my knees, I looked over the dash—we were headed straight toward Sandy Spit, not seventy yards away.

  I tried to swing my left arm, but agony tore through me. I grabbed the wheel with my right hand—thirty yards—

  Boom-Boom’s other arm was wrapped through the wheel’s spoke.

  WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!

  Machine gun fire blew out the rest of our windshield.

  The wind caught in my lungs as the gray boulders at the southwestern end of the island came into sharp focus. I kicked Boom-Boom loose, spun the wheel with my right hand, and the boat went up on its side before slamming back down—

  WHAP-WHAP!

  Our engines took a few rounds, sputtered, and cut out.

  Shit!

  WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!

  A cloud suddenly covering the moon distracted me from the approach of the jet ski assassins. Not a cloud—it was a plane.

  A box tumbled out of the plane and hit the jet ski, which flipped. It wasn’t the Beast—looked like…

  Like a Cessna Caravan with floats.

  The plane flew low over us. In the moonlight, I thought I saw a bald head and familiar face with a big smile.

  The sound of singular machine gun fire shattered the momentary quiet, and the muzzle flash now extended up toward another black silhouette that swooped down.

  Another, larger item flew out of the plane and nailed the other jet ski, which sent the driver flying.

  The second plane continued over us—the Beast!

  A grunt from the deck caught my attention.

  “That one of my bales?”

  Boom-Boom, with blood on his face and a clean groove cut down the length of his scalp, gave me a weak smile.

  It was so bizarre I couldn’t help laughing. It cost me spasms of dizziness and pain, but I couldn’t stop.

  “Thou shalt not fear the terror by night,” John Thedford said. “Not with you crazy bastards around!”

  Boom-Boom groaned. “That Psalm Ninety-one, brudda?”

  “Modified version.”

  “One of Hellfire’s favorites,” Boom-Boom said.

  I collapsed against the driver’s seat, which was slippery with blood, Boom-Boom’s and mine.

  What now? The boat was shot to hell, I was bleeding out, Diego and Boom-Boom weren’t much better—

  I peered through the splintered windshield toward Sandy Spit.

  Out of the darkness came a seaplane. It idled slowly toward us, silent on the surf like ghost ship, its lone propeller whistling like a turbocharged weed whacker.

  My vision blurred again and I slipped down in the seat.

  The plane, if it was real, pulled right up to our bow. Moonlight lit the pilot’s face. He looked familiar, and at first he smiled but then his face turned serious. Another guy hung off the wing strut. Short but stocky, he shook a fist in the air—

  In my last spark of semi-clarity, the pilot’s face I imagined on the seaplane before us popped into my head.

  Jimmy Buffett?

  Then all went black.

  JOHN THEDFORD INSISTED ON staying with us at the hospital, so the concert was postponed until we were stabilized and released the next day. Even the media couldn’t change his mind. The delay and the shootout aboard the yacht and in Soper’s Hole only increased the excitement. By show time, the crowd at Foxy’s outnumbered even the wildest projections. The celebrities, be they singers, actors, politicians, judges, writers, athletes, scientists, or intellectuals, were all in top form. The television cameras ate them up, every single one, and their personal statements and support for John and Crystal’s vision was broadcast on major networks worldwide.

  From the side of the stage, we were as close to being a part of the show as anyone could be without actually being celebrity guests. Crystal had not only insisted we all be here, she’d had a series of padded chaise longues erected where we could convalesce, have our intravenous medicines attended to, suck on a few painkillers—the kind with nutmeg sprinkled on top—and doze between performances.

  Boom-Boom and Diego enjoyed their new status. By agreement with multiple law enforcement agencies they couldn’t be shown on the air, which was fine with them. As for me, after everything that had happened during the week, particularly with Crystal, I was looking to disappear at the soonest possible opportunity. But Special Agent T. Edward Booth was still demanding answers.

  “You need to explain how those last two jet skis got knocked out with a bale of high-grade marijuana and a case of Margaritaville Tequila, Reilly. And how did you all get back to the hospital after getting shot up?”

  In all the time I’d known Booth, I’d never seen such complete frustration on his face. I recalled the black planes swooping down and blotting out the brilliant Caribbean stars—and the face in the seaplane.

  “I have no memories of the shootout, Booth. I guess losing a few pints of blood does that to you.” Booth squinty-eyed me. “Any news about Viktor Galey?”

  “No sign of him, but—”

  “You l
et him get away?”

  “We think he had inside help, Reilly. We lost three men—”

  “Was the helicopter still there?”

  Booth just stared at me, his mouth open. “Helicopter?”

  I sighed.

  “What about Bramble?” I said.

  Booth crossed his arms. “We haven’t seen him anywhere.”

  I feigned falling asleep until Booth hurried off toward one of the movie stars.

  Jamie Foxx was talking to Boom-Boom and Diego, soaking up their stories, manner of speech, and nonchalance as if preparing for a new role. The boys were giddy at the attention, but when he caught me watching him, Diego’s face turned serious.

  “You still owe me for Guana Island,” he said.

  “And me for the Russians, brudda,” Boom-Boom said.

  After a long few seconds, they both burst into laughter.

  Ray and Lenny had scored points for rescuing us from certain death by knocking out the last of the jet ski killers. Although their methodology had been left out of the news reports, they captivated the celebrities with their story of scrambling in the darkness with a plane full of contraband used to dispatch assassins.

  Valentine Hodge regaled anyone who cared to listen with stories about the history of the British Virgin Islands, his presence adding a touch of grace and sophistication to our cast of misfits.

  John Thedford had turned out to be a visionary who could kick ass. As for Crystal, well, she was keeping her distance. She’d given me a long, tearful embrace when I was released from the hospital but couldn’t bring herself to utter a word. It hurt, but I understood.

  For now, both Thedfords appeared calm, confident, and determined to dedicate their lives to helping adoptees, changing society’s view toward women facing unplanned pregnancy, and hoping to replace the walls between the hardened constituencies of “choice” with bridges.

  No small task there.

  Jimmy Buffett and Matt Hoggatt were on stage, the chemistry between them entirely natural—two Mississippi-cum-Caribbean country crooners as at home in these islands as any of the natives. Since I had yet to speak to them I didn’t know for sure whether or not it had been them on that other seaplane. If not, it must have been a hallucination caused by blood loss. I’m no investigator, but Buffett was known to have a Cessna Caravan with floats, and Hoggatt had been a police detective. And Booth said one of the jet ski drivers had been cold-cocked with a case of Margaritaville Tequila.