Bluewater Vengeance: Mystery and Adventure in the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 2)

by Charles Dougherty

  "Anything you might need if a small war broke out," Dani explained, a smile on her face as she opened one of the cases and picked up a used but well cared for AK-47. "Or, if you were of a mind to start your own war…" She worked the action, listening to it as she might check the tuning of a musical instrument.

  "Do you know how to shoot?" Liz asked.

  "Better than I can sail. You?"

  "No. I've never even seen a gun up close."

  "Want to learn?" Dani put the assault rifle back in the case with the others and shifted her position slightly to open the next case.

  "Do I need to?"

  "A girl can't be too careful."

  As Dani finished taking stock and closed up the cargo space, she answered Liz's questions as honestly as she could. She didn't know the particulars of her father's business with Phillip, but she had a reasonable idea of what they had done over the years, and for whom.

  "So was that all legal, all of their dealings?" Liz asked.

  Dani shrugged. "The people on one end of the guns thought so. The people on the other end probably had a different opinion. That's like asking if politicians are honest, Liz. My father brought me up to respect other people, and to demand the same in return. Sometimes it takes a little effort to gain the respect of certain types of people, you know. I was taught to make the effort."

  "I see," Liz said, frowning. "Would you shoot someone?"

  "Let me ask you, Liz. If Mike Reilly had come at you with a winch handle, trying to knock you overboard in mid-ocean, and you had a winch handle in your hand, would you have hit him?"

  "Yes," Liz said without hesitation.

  "Well then, if someone is holding you at gunpoint and you're armed, would you shoot him?"

  "Yes, it's always right to defend yourself, but I don't know how."

  "I do. Stick with me, partner. You'll learn. You teach me to cook, and I'll teach you to clear out a bar."

  ****

  "Phillip Davis? I never heard of him, Ozzie. Have you?"

  "Not until today, Big Jim. He's the man who was looking for this Danielle Berger, all up and down the islands. The police here put him in touch with their counterparts in Antigua after some people on a yacht up there saw a wanted poster when they cleared in with Antigua Customs. This couple told the Antigua police that they had met Danielle Berger on a yacht called Sea Serpent, down in the Tobago Cays. She was with a man named Mike, who apparently owned the yacht. Mr. Davis flew to Antigua to talk to the couple, and then flew back to Martinique. That's what we know, so far, but my men are working on it. Martinique is a bit difficult for us, but we'll find out who he is. My men are down your way today. They're going to talk to some people at Union Island and Mayreau. Perhaps we can find out more about this Sea Serpent and Mike Reilly."

  ****

  Hector and Carlos sat on the moonlit beach in Landing Bay, Baliceaux, listening carefully to José.

  "I told the Boss that we should just do Rodriguez and get it over with, but he don't want that. He wants to see what Rodriguez is up to before we do him."

  "So why not just let us ask him, José?" Hector asked. Carlos was fidgeting. He couldn't keep his hands still when José was looking at him. He knew that José's calm demeanor could change in the blink of an eye. He wished Hector wouldn't ask him questions. It was safer just to be quiet, although even that could get you in trouble with José.

  José shrugged, and Carlos flinched. "Boss said watch him, Hector." José was staring at Hector now, like a snake watching a bird. Carlos could feel beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. He had not wanted to come to Baliceaux with Hector and José.

  "I've watched you make people talk, José. You would learn everything that pig knows quickly, and we could finish him and go home." José had his back to Carlos. Carlos made the sign of the cross, and José made some gesture with his right hand that was graceful, but so fast that Carlos couldn't tell what he had done. Hector screamed and put his hand to his nose, where blood poured from a razor cut in his left nostril.

  "You talk too much, Hector. We do what the Boss says." José wiped the straight razor on Hector's shirt and folded it, putting it back into the waistband of his pants. He turned, fixing Carlos with a cross-eyed stare. "Right, Carlos?"

  Carlos nodded nervously, backing away as José took a step toward him. José smiled and giggled.

  Chapter 12

  Ozzie sat behind his great-grandfather's desk in the office of the plantation house, his carefully polished, handmade shoes on the blotter. James Robinson and his half-brother Ezekiel were sitting across the desk from him, explaining what they had learned in Union Island and Bequia the previous day.

  "Ezekiel's firs' wife's second cousin, she workin' in the customs, dungda de Union," James said. "She look for this Phillip Davis in the computer, an' he did clear in at Union wit' he boat, jus' a wee bit befo' we t'ink Baliceaux hit, late one afternoon."

  "That could be just chance, coincidence," Ozzie said.

  "I don' understand, Ozzie. What that mean?"

  "It means that it may have just been an accident that he cleared in about the same time as the attack."

  "Mebbe, Ozzie, but I t'ink mebbe not, because he clear out at Bequia, jus' a likkle over 12 hours later. That strange, I t'ink. Mos' peoples, they would not do that. They sail in the night, they would stay in Bequia and res', most peoples."

  "Yes, I see your point, James. Do we know the name of the boat that this Phillip Davis was sailing?"

  "Boat is Kayak Spirit, one Carriacou sloop, belong Mr. Davis. It say this, in the customs' computer."

  "And where was he bound, on his outbound clearance?"

  "He go to Marin, in Martinique. He have one other man wit' he, name Sullivan O'Hara Sinclair. He have Dominica passport, Sinclair. From Portsmouth, on the immigration paper."

  "Ah, Dominica, yes! We can work there, much more easily than Martinique. Do you know anyone in Dominica? I think it would be best if we avoid using our regular contacts there, to maintain a low profile."

  "Maintain what, Ozzie?"

  "Don't let the authorities know we're asking questions there."

  "Okay, Ozzie. Zeke and me, we can do that. Zeke, he third wife, she from by Portsmouth. We have many cousin in Dominica."

  "So, get on the next flight up there and see what you can learn about this Sullivan O'Hara Sinclair."

  ****

  Dani and Liz were out in the middle of the Antigua channel again, with Kayak Spirit hove to. Dani had just watched Liz load and unload one of the AK-47s for the fourth time.

  "Sorry for all the repetition, Liz, but if you want to learn to handle a firearm well, you need to know it the same way you know the parts of your own body. You may never have to use one, but you have to be completely at ease with it before you can shoot it instinctively. That's what will keep you alive in a firefight."

  "Have you been in a firefight?"

  "Yes, a few times. I was sailing as crew with Phillip for a season a few years ago and we were where we shouldn't have been, okay? Never mention that around my father, though." Dani was busily tossing empty gallon bleach jugs over the side. She watched them drift slowly away. When the most distant one was about 25 meters from them, she turned to Liz. "Okay, put that loaded magazine in and get a round in the chamber. Take your time, and remember all of the steps we practiced. When you're ready, fire single shots at the jugs -- take the most distant one first."

  They continued the exercise until Liz was consistently puncturing the drifting targets. "You're good at this, Liz. It just requires staying in control, using your eye-hand coordination. The thing to remember in a confrontation involving guns is that it doesn't matter who shoots first or fastest. The winner is the one who puts her opponent out of commission first. First, avoid the confrontation. Second, if you can't avoid it, don't get hit. Third, kill the other person before he kills you. Gunfights, knife fights, fistfights -- it's all the same. Got it?"

  "Got it. You make it sound simple, Dani. Is it re
ally that simple?"

  "Yes, as long as you never forget that the objective is to kill the other guy. Once you're committed, don't ever hold back. When you're as small as we are, there are no fair fights and no second chances. Don't give your opponent a chance to get up and try again. Let's eat lunch, and then we'll work with the pistol. We can do hand-to-hand ashore, but we need to deal with the noisy stuff out here. Knives and fists don't make much noise. I'll get lunch while you strip the rifle and clean it."

  "Right, skipper," Liz said, smiling at the notion of learning so many arcane things in such an unlikely setting.

  ****

  Mario Espinosa was in his home office in Miami when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller i.d. screen before he accepted the call. "Bonjour, J.-P."

  "Buenos días, Mario. ¿Cómo está usted?"

  "Bien, et vous?"

  "Not so bad, for an old soldier," J.-P. said, giving up first and switching to English. Mario's French was better than J.-P.'s Spanish.

  "How is Dani, J.-P.?"

  "She's well. Thank you for asking. She's bought a yacht and started a business." J.-P. went on to fill Mario in on Dani's latest venture.

  "I'm disappointed that she didn't give me a chance to put some money in, J.-P."

  "Well, she had planned to, but the woman who is working with her wanted to invest, and Dani thought that was important. She hoped you would understand."

  "Of course, J.-P. What is new with you, my friend?"

  J.-P. told Mario about the phone call Phillip received from their police contact in St. Vincent, and about his own indirect message from El Grupo. "I thought perhaps you or Paul Russo could ask a few discreet questions in Miami for me, Mario. The word I have is that the guy who runs El Grupo's Caribbean business lives there. I think they must have what you call a loose cannon, somewhere. Or, they are setting me and Phillip up."

  "Yes, we can find out something, perhaps. I think that you and Phillip have it right, though. There's someone in the organization working his own game, without the upper level knowing, I think. I've heard they do a little human trafficking, but they're very careful to take victims that won't be missed. You know that drug business, though, it attracts men with no honor, so their people are out of control much of the time. Let us check it out. I'll call you back soon."

  "Thank you, Mario. Give my best to your lovely Maria, please. Maybe we can all be together for the wedding."

  "And mine to Anne, J.-P. Wait! What wedding?"

  "You haven't heard? Phillip and Sandrine are getting married."

  "No, I didn't know that."

  "Sorry to spoil Phillip's chance to tell you. I thought he probably had, already."

  "I'll call him now, the rascal. There will be some disappointed ladies in Miami, I think."

  "Yes, I imagine so, Mario. Thanks again."

  Mario smiled as he slipped the phone into his pocket.

  ****

  James and Ezekiel were in line for immigration and customs at the airport in Dominica. As they shuffled forward, Ezekiel asked, "We go on to Portsmouth now or spend the night somewhere like Roseau?"

  "I t'ink Portsmouth, Zeke. We ask 'roun' the rum shops 'bout this Sinclair."

  Once past the immigration counter, they claimed their bags and walked past the customs officers without being stopped. Outside the terminal, they found a taxi to take them to Portsmouth. Ezekiel passed the time talking on his cell phone, checking in with relatives and lining up a place to stay. When he finally finished his last call, he turned to James.

  "Okay, James. We stay wit' Roseanne and Jenny tonight. They got plenty room. Both widow ladies, sisters. Sell one house and live together in the other. Rent some room to people like we. They get money to buy food."

  "Uh-huh, Zeke." James had a knowing smirk on his face.

  "No, mon, no funny bidness. These ladies my stepmother aunts. Too old fo' that, anyhow."

  James' face fell. "Somebody know this Sinclair mon?"

  "No. Nobody name Sinclair that anybody know. We try in the rum shops, mebbe. We find him. Portsmouth small place."

  ****

  Sharktooth was sitting on the porch of the house where the Indian River guides spent time when they weren't actively engaged with tourists. It was late in the day for their business and several of his cronies were drinking cold, locally brewed Guiness. Sharktooth was eating "curry goat" from a Styrofoam container and listening to a tale about a group of tourists from one of the bareboat charter yachts anchored out in the harbor.

  "No, I say the truth," the narrator protested. "The man so fat ass, he float wit' he head in the water. He can't lif' it out. He get water in he snorkel, dam' near drown, he."

  "So, what you do, Alex," Sharktooth asked, between bites of curry.

  "Firs', I try to lif' he head up, but I can get no foothold. Water too deep. I see the anchor on the side deck, an' grab that. Tie it to he feets, t'row it over, and it sink, pull he feets down, and he head pop up. He some vexed, that mon, once he breathin' again. He spit an' cuss, spit an' cuss." Alex shook his head as his audience laughed.

  A teenaged boy standing on the edge of the circle caught Sharktooth's eye as the chuckles subsided. Sharktooth stood and walked over to the young man. "Hello, Jeffrey," Sharktooth said. "Wha's up, mon?"

  "Aunt Roseanne, she say tell you some men, they ax 'bout Sullivan O'Hara Sinclair."

  "She say who they are, ax'n?"

  "Some cousins of some kind, gon' stay wit' her and Aunt Jenny. They lookin' fo' that fella. You know he, Sharktooth, that Sullivan fella?"

  "No, mon, not me. I don' know he, but I know if somebody ax fo' he, trouble comin'. You tell Aunt Roseanne I owe her big. I settle wit' her when the men gone."

  As Jeffrey walked away, Sharktooth clambered down the embankment and untied his water taxi. He climbed aboard, stepping over the dried cartilaginous jaws of a large mako shark, which were fastened to the foredeck of his boat. The jaws had been his trademark as long as he had run the water taxi. Nobody had called him Sullivan O'Hara Sinclair since his mother died 25 years ago, and only a few of the old folks even knew him by any name other than Sharktooth.

  He started the big outboard and idled out into the harbor. Once he was out of earshot of his friends, he took out his cell phone.

  ****

  Phillip and Sandrine were sitting on his veranda, looking out over the anchored yachts off the village of Ste. Anne. They were admiring the sunset, hoping for "the flash green," as Sandrine called it, when his cell phone rang.

  "Hello, Sharktooth. Good evening to you."

  "Good evening, Phillip. How are you and your lady?"

  "We're well. And how are you?"

  "Mebbe we got some little trouble, Phillip." Sharktooth explained what had happened.

  "So will anybody tell them, Sharktooth?"

  "No, mon. No worries. Only be bad for those men, they learn the trut'. Portsmouth is not fo' strange men to come make trouble. They won' learn anyt'ing. I jus' want you to know somebody lookin'. Las' time I use my real passport. Don' know why I don' use one of the other one. Out of practice, Phillip. Had to be from our trip, they get that name. Prob'ly dungda de Union, mebbe, or Bequia."

  "Did you use it in Grenada?"

  "You right, mon. I did. Could be Grenada, too."

  Phillip told Sharktooth about the call from the Chief Super, and about J.-P.'s information as well. "I should have called you, Sharktooth, but I had no idea they would find out about you."

  "Don' worry, mon. My fault. No problem. When you and Sandrine get marry?"

  "Did Dani tell you, too?"

  "No, mon. I been marry. I know what it look like when it 'bout to happen. You look like my grandmother's old goat, right befo' she brain he fo' Sunday deenah."

  "We haven't set a date yet. I'll let you know. Be careful."

  "You, too, Phillip," Sharktooth said, as they disconnected.

  Chapter 13

  Paul Russo had been retired from the Miami Police Department for a
couple of years, but he kept up with all his old contacts, both in the department and on the street. After hearing from Mario about J.-P.'s concerns, he made a few quick phone calls. It was an open secret that Juan Camacho did business with some shady characters from Venezuela, but he was shrewd. His dealings had never left evidence sufficient to get him arrested, mostly because all of his major criminal activities happened offshore. He was a constant target of various Federal and joint Federal, state and local investigations, so Paul's early questions about El Grupo quickly put Camacho in his sights.

  Paul was sitting on a bench in the waterfront park downtown, looking out over the Intracoastal Waterway, and his companion, Luc Delgado, was feeding roasted peanuts to the pigeons.

  "They mostly call him 'The Boss,' or just plain Boss," Luc said. "When I was undercover, I spent two years working my way in, trying to get close enough to him to pin something on him -- anything that we coulda used to haul him in, you know, but he's slick as swamp scum, Paul. Nothing sticks to him."

  "You think he might be running his own game? Keeping something back from El Grupo?"

  Luc sat still, breathing the aroma of the freshly roasted peanuts wafting from the sack in his hands, thinking.

  "Anything's possible with these guys, Paul. You know that, but I just don't see it. Every one of the hoods I was mixed up with thought Tío Juan was El Grupo. He just likes Miami better than Venezuela. Misses Cuba, I think. Doesn't make sense to me that he'd be running anything on the side -- no incentive. He's got it all. Money, power, respect. Nah, if somebody was off playing on his own, it would probably be one of his guys, not him."

  "What about his guys, Luc? What's his organization like?"

  "That's the question. We never got a handle on it. He's too careful. The only people we really knew that were tied to him were these three that we called the three stooges. They were always together, always on the edge of some kind of trouble. The Boss went to bat for them. Sent in his lawyer, paid the damages, fines, whatever. They did odd jobs for him, drove, washed the cars, probably pushed people around, if Tío Juan wanted somebody pushed. Small time, though. Can't see any of them running anything."