The Indigo Brothers Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vickie McKeehan

  Nathan’s eyes got bigger. “How do you know the rest of that stuff?”

  Jackson leveled a deadly gaze at his former friend and decided it was time to bluff. “What did you take out of the safe deposit box, Nathan? There’s surveillance video of you going in there, coming out fifteen minutes later. You might as well tell us.”

  The banker started twitching in his seat. “You couldn’t possibly know that.”

  “We know more than you think we do. We’ve been talking to Duarte since Garret took you off that boat. Matter of fact, Duarte wants you back, bad. He wants to cut your throat himself because of all the misery you caused on board his ship. So it sounds to me like you’ve worn out your welcome there. No gold for you, Nathan.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair.”

  “Neither is murdering a family of four, add two more to that count—Ryan Connelly and Dack Hawkins didn’t deserve bullets to the head. I got news for you. You aren’t even welcome on The Black Rum. I could send you back to Duarte and let him take care of you.” Mitch turned in his chair. “Bring in Hugo Reiner.”

  A few minutes later Walsh brought the old sailor into the galley.

  Nathan went icy-white. He started to hyperventilate and sputtered out, “What the hell is he doing on your boat?”

  “Hugo? We agreed to keep him away from Werner Dietrich.”

  Nathan stared at the old man, his eyes blinking at a rapid rate. The wheels were turning in his head. Beads of sweat popped out on his brow. Tears began to stream down his face until he broke into genuine sobs. His chest rattled out a deep, high keening sound a he continued to weep and moan and twist in his chair trying to get his cuffed hand loose. He tried to catch his breath enough to speak. When he finally took a gulp of air, the sudden crying stopped. He started wheezing again.

  As quickly as he’d turned on the waterworks, his mood changed. The wheezing became a hysterical howl that turned into laughter. He laughed so hard that he doubled over. Blood dripped down his face from his busted nose. But the banker ignored it. He looked like a half-crazed man losing the slim tether he’d had on his sanity.

  When Nathan did manage to open his mouth, his voice was a high-pitched, unnerving squeal. He screamed, “You fools! Don’t you realize, we’ve all been played!”

  Chapter One - Justice

  Mitchell Taylor Indigo had pirate’s blood running through his veins. Thanks to his ancestor Koda Indigo—a swashbuckler who’d lived three hundred years before—the lure of the sea had grabbed him early on and never let go.

  At the age of eighteen, Mitch had gotten lucky when he’d hopped on a freighter called The Outlander bound for the Indian Ocean. Three years earlier Captain Kidd’s shipwreck had been found in that same Madagascar region, exactly where he yearned to be. He’d been a sophomore in high school at the time the discovery made headlines. Even then, he knew in his heart that someday he’d haul up a similar bounty.

  To a young kid looking for adventure, a chance to find a shipwreck like that—one that carried a cargo full of treasure—was too great a pull. Mitch left town to make his fortune and never looked back.

  Those first years at sea were hard—bad weather coupled with long hours that made for a sometimes tense learning curve.

  He might’ve had trouble at first, but he was a quick study. It took four years working for someone else before the crew he was on hit the mother lode—a Spanish galleon filled with gold and silver coins and precious gems for the taking, scooped up off the ocean floor like candy from a piñata. The haul had totaled close to two hundred and fifty million dollars split among a crew of twenty.

  His share had given him the money to start his own salvage business—Seeker Marine Excavation. He poured his money into a modern, state-of-the-art ship and hired the best crew he could afford.

  Then three years ago Lady Luck had smiled on him again when his crew had dived on a British frigate off the coast of Duncan’s Bay in Jamaica. The ship, Lord Whitby, had gone down during gale force winds in the fall of 1814, carrying a full manifest of silver and gold. Most of the crew made it to shore, but the boat sank with all that loot. The find and recovery had made Mitch Indigo a wealthy man.

  He’d carried on Koda’s tradition the only way he knew how. What had started out as a fanciful tale about a Spanish countess and the fact Koda had fought his crewmates to keep her said it all.

  Fighting ran in his bloodline.

  It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d left a dive near Little Bahama Bank looking for a Spanish ship that went down in 1658. Instead of searching for gold and gems, he’d tried to find his sister, Livvy, and her children.

  It hurt to know Livvy’s entire family had been wiped out the night she went missing. He’d promised his parents he’d find the people responsible.

  In the vastness of the Atlantic, The Black Rum motored full speed ahead. After successfully stealing Nathan Hollister from under the noses of the Patagonia Pike, they needed to put as much distance as they could between the two ships.

  The boat pushed through a cloud of haze and mist that shrouded it in thick fog. The gloaming gave the rocky surf an excuse to bite back, as the waves roared up, battering the portside in a show of strength. The sea whipped, wild and high, and slammed onto the deck. White caps churned in its wake making the crew and passengers well aware that for the next few hours the boat was at the mercy of Mother Nature.

  But weather was the least of Mitch’s problems.

  Thirty-year-old Mitch had reached his limit for the night. The dark circles under his eyes showed the strain of the past few hours. He and his brothers had been embroiled in a war of words as they set out to get to the truth.

  Mitch was convinced that one of the men responsible for his sister’s brutal murder was suffering from a mental breakdown right in front of him. Or it might’ve been a clever acting job.

  Had Nathan Hollister’s mind really snapped?

  Mitch didn’t think so. He needed to cut through the guy’s act to get answers. He glanced around the galley at the audience of men. Walsh Kingston, his crew chief, had his arms crossed over his chest. Just as defiant and determined, his brothers, Garret and Jackson, were ready to pounce. Their faces were drained of emotions, as lack of sleep became a prime factor for their irritable state of mind.

  Mitch stared down at Nathan and watched the hysterical binge continue and take on a life of its own. Done with listening to the tantrum, he shouted, “Stop your ranting, Hollister. Tell me what the hell you’re talking about or shut up!”

  The laughter died on the banker’s face. “You idiots. That man’s Werner Dietrich,” Nathan fired back. “That’s not Hugo Reiner at all.”

  “He’s lying!” the old man screamed, his white hair sticking out wildly on the sides of his head above his ears. In broken English, laden with a thick German accent, the old man yelled across the galley, “He’ll say anything to save his sorry hide and keep the suspicion off him. He’s the one who killed your sister! Ask him. Go ahead, ask him!”

  “I ought to know who he is,” Nathan protested. “Dietrich’s the man who hired me on the Patagonia Pike. He’s the one you want! Not me.”

  But the old man had no intention of taking the accusation without a verbal battle. “Ask him about the murders.”

  “Shut up! Both of you,” Mitch finally called out as he pulled his sidearm out of his holster. “Jackson, I know he’s cuffed, but maybe you should take hold of your former buddy there just the same.”

  Once Jackson moved into position behind Nathan, Mitch whirled on Hugo. “How would you know who killed our sister? Tell me that.”

  “I…I…heard…people talking.”

  Mitch moved closer to the old man, glared into his pale blue eyes, clearer than the day they’d brought him on board. “Lately, I’ve been boning up on my research about Nazis. One thing I learned about the Fascist regime, and it actually surprised me. They had a number of little idiosyncrasies they practiced that began as soon as Hitler came to power. And there’s one
surefire way of knowing which one of you is lying.”

  Mitch eyed both men, “It seems if you were high enough in rank, like a colonel, or a member of the Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence agency, any SS officer including members of his immediate family, including his children, were given a small black tattoo located on the underside of the left arm near the armpit. When the practice began in 1933 it was meant to show the individual’s blood type.”

  Mitch glanced at Garret. “How’s the shoulder doing where Duarte’s men shot you?”

  Garret lifted it without a problem. “Like I said, it’s just a flesh wound.”

  “Good. I want you to yank up this guy’s shirt. Check his arm. Let’s see if the mysterious stranger we’ve been hosting has the blood tattoo.”

  The old man struggled to keep Garret from pushing up the sleeve of the T-shirt he wore, cursing him in German. But he was no match for the athletic Garret, who soon had him subdued enough to reveal the ink mark of an “A” on the man’s wrinkled skin. “Well, well, well, what do you know? Look what we have here.”

  “My name’s Reiner,” the old man insisted. “I told you my father was a lieutenant. I got that when I was a boy.”

  Mitch’s golden-brown eyes stared at the old man. “You did tell us that. But from what history tells us, the families of most lieutenants were excluded from getting inked, especially in the latter days of the war. You said your father was only twenty-five. I doubt they’d extend the practice to the children of a low-man-on-the-totem-pole lieutenant.”

  Garret chimed in, “The likes of Josef Mengele and Alois Brunner were smart enough to opt out of getting them altogether. It’s one of the reasons that kept them from being captured. Well, that, and the fact that they moved around a lot every time the Mossad came sniffing around.”

  “Good point. So let’s review the options on our side,” Mitch stated. “From where I stand, I don’t believe I’m looking at the offspring of a lowly lieutenant who just happens to carry the tattoo. Me? I think you’re the baby boy of that high-ranking SS officer who made his way down to Argentina and hid out in Bariloche.”

  Mitch turned to his brothers. “What’s the verdict, guys? I’m asking for a vote. All this time, I think we’ve had us a very important man on board.”

  “It makes sense that he’s Werner Dietrich,” Jackson noted. Ever since he’s been here he’s never acted much like you’d think a man living off the grid would act.”

  “Same here,” Garret said in agreement. “Mr. Dietrich leans more toward demanding a lot better food than what he’s been getting, like he’s used to talking to servants.”

  “So you believe me?” Nathan asked.

  Mitch nodded. “About this? Sure. I do. About the other BS? Not even a little bit. I want to know where your friends got the barrels they used to put four people in the ocean. In fact, there’s a long list of things I want to know. Here. Now. Tonight.”

  Anniston walked in, followed by her brother, Sebastian. She went over to Garret, unwrapped a Band-Aid and stuck it to the owie on his upper arm. She patted the shoulder where a bullet had grazed it and lightly kissed his cheek. “There, all better. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take a swab of Nathan’s mouth for DNA testing.”

  “Be my guest,” Garret said, still holding on to Dietrich’s arm. “It has the makings of being a very long night.”

  Anniston stepped over to Nathan and stood in front of him with a long Q-tip. “Open up like a good boy.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nathan said, balking and pulling his head away from the stick.

  Growing tired of the whole thing, Jackson put Nathan’s head in an arm lock. “Just do it. For once stop your bitching and cooperate.”

  “What’s it for?” Nathan returned.

  “Comparison,” Anniston hissed as she none-too-gently poked his mouth with the swab. “There. All done. That didn’t hurt, did it?”

  Nathan was far from satisfied. “You aren’t pinning anything on me with some phony DNA results. I want to talk to a real cop. Get me Sinclair. Or better still, a lawyer.”

  Jackson laughed in his face. “We’ll get right on that. In your dreams. We’re nowhere near the Key. In case you haven’t noticed, banker boy, we’re in international waters. Besides, we already know your buddy Sinclair is one of the biggest crooks in town.”

  Fed up with Nathan’s attitude, Jackson smacked him across the face. “What is it with you, when did you get like this? When did you become such a greedy bottom-feeder?”

  Across the galley Dietrich sent a lethal glare aimed at Nathan. “If you want to take many more breaths, I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut, boy.”

  Garret began to pace in front of Dietrich. “From the moment we stepped on the Schneewind, this guy snookered us. Do you think he had anything to do with those two bodies that washed up near Sugarloaf Key?”

  Anniston stared at Dietrich. “Chuck’s back at work now after taking a few days off since Dack’s death. When he pulled the autopsies on those two cases, it turns out, they were both male. One was in his seventies, the other in his forties. They were both shot. The older guy hasn’t yet been identified, but the other one was a Swedish national, fingerprints on file with Interpol say he’s Leon Sundström, a gun for hire with a long history of violence in Europe. Sundström’s been on a terrorist watch list. His last known gig was in Buenos Aires working for, wait for it, Werner Dietrich. The murders in Sugarloaf Key had likely just happened, no more than fifteen minutes or so before you guys stumbled on Dietrich’s three-act play ramping up.”

  “What Anniston and I think happened is this,” Sebastian began. “Dietrich likely showed up to confront Hugo about his supposed cache of papers. He wanted whatever Hugo had in his possession. Some type of gun battle ensued where Hugo got the drop on Sundström first, got off a shot, and then in turn, Dietrich killed Hugo. He must’ve panicked when he spotted you guys headed to the boat and realized he had two dead bodies on his hands. He probably dumped them over the side, threw on some of Hugo’s clothes, and went into his Hugo act.”

  Mitch leveled his pistol at Dietrich. “That means you still don’t have what you were looking for, do you? You’ve killed members of my family. There are consequences to that.”

  “What I’d like to do is spend some time with him asking about the chat room setup he uses to communicate with Baskin and Dandridge,” Sebastian prompted.

  Dietrich waved a hand. “Nein, I’m not talking, done talking.”

  “Fine. Because we’re done being nice,” Mitch warned. “Let’s see what your pals Baskin and Dandridge do after not hearing from you over the next several days. Let’s see if they go into panic mode. Bets? Walsh, would you get this piece of shit out of my face?”

  “Happy to,” the crew chief replied. Walsh took hold of Dietrich’s arm as Garret relinquished his grip.

  “Keep his cabin locked and guarded at all times,” Mitch ordered. “See to it personally.”

  “Will do. What about the other snake?”

  Mitch slapped Nathan on the shoulder. “Good ol’ Nathan, here? We aren’t quite finished yet interrogating our weakest link,” he replied.

  “What do you mean by that? I’m no one’s weakest anything,” Nathan challenged.

  As soon as Walsh had taken Dietrich out of the room, Mitch holstered his weapon and angled toward the banker. “Duarte keeps pressuring me to give you back to him. You know what he wants to do with you, right? So far, I’ve resisted his taunts. I’m not sure you’re even worth keeping.”

  Nathan swallowed hard. “But I’ve known all of you for most of my life.”

  “And that didn’t stop you from turning on Livvy the minute you thought you could get to a big score. You really picked the wrong family to mess with, Nathan.”

  Franco Duarte, captain of the Patagonia Pike, was pissed. They’d stolen his diver right out from under his nose, the one he’d planned to use as a warning to the others, to use as an example.

  He glanced
over at the crewman, the man he felt was responsible for letting it all happen. Duarte realized the man wisely stood just out of his reach—his back pressed up against the cabin wall as flat as it could go. The captain narrowed his eyes. “I know you left your post. Where were you? No, don’t answer that. I might kill you if you open your mouth to try and defend your actions.”

  Duarte took five steps toward the shaking crewman, stretched out his arm and leveled his pistol against the man’s forehead. Duarte pressed so hard the barrel left a red, round indent in the crewman’s skin. “Get out of my sight now before I kill you.”

  The crewman scurried out the cabin door before the captain’s words faded from the air. Duarte placed his gun on the table to pour himself a shot of whiskey. He pounded his fist on the table and turned to Sandoval, his crew chief. “We need a plan to get the diver back.”

  “Dietrich should be consulted. Don’t you think?” Sandoval suggested.

  Duarte ran his hands through his thinning, gray-streaked hair. “And provoke his anger? You know Dietrich. He’ll be furious. He may own this ship, but he’s left it up to me to run things. Don’t ever forget that.” He sat down at the table, threw back the bourbon. He let his head rest on the back of the chair. “All right. Give me the damn satellite phone and I’ll call him. But I don’t think we’ll be getting his blessing.”

  After placing the mobile call and letting it ring at least twenty times, Duarte finally hung up, a wave of relief moving through him. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but it seems Dietrich has gone back to South America without telling us. Which means I’ll handle this on my own,” he told Sandoval. “We need to show the people on The Black Rum we mean business. If we don’t make a statement now, they’ll be all over the Florida coastline looking for the gold.”