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

by Charles Dougherty

  Phillip lowered his night vision binoculars. "Nobody in the crowd that looked like Johnston, but some of them were in the pictures on his wall of fame. Gotta be local politicians."

  They hadn't found much of use when they searched the plantation house, but one wall of the traditional plantation office had been given over to framed photographs of a big, handsome light-skinned man, shaking hands with obvious celebrities.

  "He the fool wear the coat on the ferry, Phillip. 'Member, I say only white man be that dumb, an' he no white man?" Sharktooth had asked, as they stood, studying the pictures.

  "Gotta be Johnston," Phillip had agreed.

  They watched as the tender approached the motor yacht.

  "Creole Belle," Phillip said, reading the lettering on the yacht's stern with his binoculars. "Nobody's waiting for a ride now."

  "Maybe he'll stay on board. That would be convenient," Dani observed.

  The tender pulled around to the port side, and the two crewmen hooked it up to the hoist cables. There was a soft whir of hydraulics as the tender rose out of the water and shifted sideways, disappearing into the interior of Creole Belle. The hatch closed slowly, settling into place with a solid sound, leaving no sign of the opening that had swallowed the 30-foot long tender. The pitch of Creole Belle's engines rose as the boat crept forward. Soon, there was the clanking sound of the anchor chain being retrieved.

  "Damnation!" Phillip muttered. "They're leaving, and Paul won't be here for another hour. Hope to hell they don't move too fast." Glancing over and seeing the worried frown on Dani's face, he added, "Hang in there, Dani. We'll have her back before the day's out."

  Dani nodded, blinking hard. "Thanks, Phillip."

  ****

  Ozzie was alone in his office, enjoying a cup of tea. It would soon be dawn, but he was accustomed to keeping late hours. He was relaxing, enjoying the sense that the party had gone well. He had hours of video of several key legislators doing things of which the voters would never imagine them to be capable. He smiled at some of the antics he had seen.

  Steve was taking Creole Belle down to Trinidad to have her hauled for some routine maintenance, and the two crewmen who had been guarding Danielle Berger had gone to look for their friends Zeke and James. Ozzie had warned the two to stay fresh for their roles in today's video.

  Before he put his plan into effect, he was going to call J.-P. Berger and taunt him a bit. He looked at the clock on the wall, mentally calculating the time in Paris, and then he realized that it didn't matter. He took one of the stolen satellite phones from his desk drawer and entered the number for J.-P.'s cell phone.

  "Hello, this is J.-P. Berger."

  "Good morning, Mr. Berger. How is the state of your finances this morning?"

  "I told you it would not be ready until tomorrow."

  "I decided to charge a little interest for the delay, but don't worry. Your daughter will be starring in a little movie with two of my men, to defray the cost of your delay in payment, so it won't cost you a thing. It'll be on the Internet in a few hours. Watch for a text message with the link."

  Ozzie started to hang up, but paused in mid-keystroke as he heard Berger say, "Wait just a moment, Johnston." He froze, a chill running down his spine.

  "How…", Ozzie started to ask, but was cut off as J.-P. spoke over him.

  "You must know something about me, Mr. Johnston, do you not?"

  "But…"

  "Mr. Johnston, this is not a game. Two of your men died at the hands of my friends last night because you are a fool. You have my daughter. I have the money. We will work out a way to trade, but I assure you, if you even cause her the slightest discomfort, you will wish for death for a long, long time."

  Ozzie heard a click as the call was terminated, and the phone slipped from his trembling fingers.

  He was still trying to collect his wits when the two crewmen barged into his office. Their rude entrance snapped him out of his momentary shock.

  "What?" he snapped, glaring at them imperiously.

  "Zeke and James," David said, looking as stunned as Ozzie.

  "Yes. I told you, they're in the cabin with that piece of white trash that you all like to play with. Why are you here, instead of there?"

  "They're dead, Mr. Johnston. There's no sign of the girl."

  Ozzie felt his heart pounding against his rib cage. His vision narrowed, bright colors swimming around the periphery. He felt himself shaking. Rationally, he knew this was a panic attack. It wasn't his first. His reason deserted him as he slid from his desk chair, collapsing on the floor, curling into a fetal position.

  "He's coming, he's coming, he…" Ozzie jerked and twitched uncontrollably as the two crewmen rushed to his aid.

  ****

  Dani was at the helm of Midnight Thunder as they scoured the west coast of St. Vincent, looking for any sign of Creole Belle. Paul was asleep, exhausted from the high speed run down from Martinique, and Phillip was glued to the radar screen. They were salivating at the smell of bacon and sausage frying as Sharktooth cooked breakfast.

  "No sign of her, damn it," Phillip muttered. The satellite phone on the console in front of him rang. He looked at the caller i.d. screen.

  "Good morning, J.-P."

  "Good morning, Phillip. Johnston just called me and threatened to turn two of his men loose on Liz. I did as we agreed a little while ago. As you Americans would say, the shoe is now on the other foot, I think. He sounded a little worried."

  "Were your folks able to get a position this time?"

  "No. Well, same as the other calls, actually. Another stolen phone, and the satellite footprint put it somewhere in the Eastern Caribbean. Have you found his yacht?"

  "No. It'll be daylight, soon, so we'll have to head out to sea. I don't want anybody to get a look at Midnight Thunder. Has Mrs. Walker learned anything useful from her contacts?"

  "Not yet, but she's put the word out to see if anybody around Wallilabou knows anything about him."

  ****

  Liz was exhausted, running on pure adrenalin. She was still climbing, still making her way up to that first ridgeline. It was much farther than it had first appeared. She was sure that when she removed the boots, they would be filled with blood from her feet, but she pushed on.

  She revised her plan as she trudged forward. It was nearly dawn; she could see the sky beginning to lighten in the east, over the mountaintop. She would find a place to rest in the brush during the daylight hours, waiting to travel again when it was dark. Sometime during her trek, she had realized that the longer she stayed out of sight in the wilderness, the better. If she stayed alone, there was no danger of capture; any contact could lead to betrayal, so her mindset was shifting from flight to concealment and survival. At some point, they would stop looking for her, and she could get in touch with Dani or Phillip. She had their cell phone numbers committed to memory.

  Her captors would surely miss her in another hour; two at the most, when they brought her breakfast. At the thought of breakfast, she felt raging hunger. Once she stopped, she would eat last night's dinner from her stolen knapsack. She had crossed several little streams over the last few hours, drinking her fill at each one. She knew she wasn't in danger of dehydration, but she was still thirsty. She wished now she had thought to bring a container of some sort, but she knew that the thirst was mostly in her head. She only wanted water because she didn't have any.

  Chapter 34

  Mario Espinosa sat at his regular table in the little Cuban restaurant a block off Lincoln Road in Miami Beach. The man drinking coffee with him was not one of his regular companions; he was a lawyer from Miami who sometimes did work for Juan Camacho and others in the community of Cuban exiles. The meeting had been arranged by Mario's son, who practiced criminal law in Miami.

  "Sr. Espinosa," the man began, "I sometimes do work for Juan Camacho. Perhaps you know of him?"

  Mario nodded. He knew who Camacho was, but held him in low regard. Mario and his cronies weren't stickler
s when it came to obeying the letter of the law, but they shared a conservative sense of morality, refusing to participate in activities that they saw as contrary to the good of the public. Camacho had no such compunctions. "Are you representing him now, Mr. Epstein?"

  "No, not exactly, but I've been asked by intermediaries who must remain anonymous to talk with you about a matter that Sr. Camacho believes to be of interest to a friend of yours."

  Mario fixed the man with a steady gaze, waiting.

  "Sr. Camacho is given to understand that you are close to a Jean-Paul Berger, a French businessman."

  "I've worked with Mr. Berger occasionally over the years," Mario said.

  The lawyer nodded. "Sr. Camacho is aware that Mr. Berger's daughter has been in some difficulty with certain, shall we call them 'rogue elements,' who were once associates of his. Do you follow me?"

  "Yes, I believe so. You're telling me that Camacho doesn't want to be held responsible for the behavior of his underlings."

  "Those are your words, Sr. Espinosa. There are implications in your statement with which I cannot agree, but I think you grasp the essence of the matter. Sr. Camacho further wishes Mr. Berger to know that if there is any assistance that he can offer in resolving this problem, he is at Mr. Berger's command."

  "I'll see that Mr. Berger gets the message, Mr. Epstein, but in no way do I speak for him."

  "Sr. Camacho understands this, and he will be most grateful." The lawyer pushed his chair back, his coffee untouched on the table in front of him.

  "One moment, Mr. Epstein, please?"

  "Yes, certainly. What is it?"

  "I am not so fluent with the language that I can cloak what I wish to say in words that hide my true meaning, nor do I feel the need to do so. You understand?"

  "Yes, Sr. Espinosa."

  "You tell Camacho that he may be worried about the wrong man. I am Dani Berger's godfather. She's like a daughter to me. No matter what Mr. Berger says or does, I'll hold Camacho personally responsible for her well-being, not just now, but forever. I know from what you said that his 'former associates' are bothering her. He should pray that she stays well. Just so there is no confusion, this is a threat, plain and simple. If she or anyone close to her is harmed, ever, even a little bit, I will kill Juan Camacho with my own hands, whether he had anything to do with it or not. Can you give him that message for me, Mr. Epstein?"

  The lawyer nodded nervously.

  "Good. Get out of my sight."

  Mario called J.-P. and passed along the information.

  "I think he's what the young people call 'scared shitless,' J.-P."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps he just worries that we will disrupt his business, stirring up things down in the islands. People like him, they don't like to stand in the daylight, or however the Americans say it."

  "Do you have any news?"

  J.-P. related his recent conversation with Johnston.

  "That should keep him awake at night," Mario said. "Especially if he has any contact with Camacho."

  ****

  Juan Camacho sat in his office, looking out at the swimming pool in his back yard, trying to lower his blood pressure. The girl was out there, sunbathing, oblivious. He tried to concentrate on her, to distract himself, but it wasn't working. Epstein had just left after stammering his way through a description of his meeting with Mario Espinosa. Fear was not an element of Camacho's being, in the sense that most people know fear. He had long ago suppressed such a useless, vestigial emotion. He reacted to threats by taking action, but in this case, he was frustrated.

  He couldn't afford a battle with Espinosa and Berger. That had been the whole point of Epstein's mission. El Grupo's business was already suffering, with Baliceaux out of commission. He was racking his brain, looking for a way to settle this matter so that everybody could go back to work. He was also puzzled by José's silence. He should have been back in Miami by now, with the video of Rodriguez's death and the paperwork for Maximo, but he hadn't even called to report that he was on his way home. His calls to José's satellite phone had gone to voicemail for the last couple of days.

  He called the beeper number for his contact in the DEA's task force, and settled back in his leather desk chair, waiting. In a few minutes, his phone rang.

  "Have there been more requests for information on that yacht?" he asked the woman.

  "No. Nothing. I would have called. Should I see what I can find?"

  "Yes, please. There will be a bonus if you get back to me in an hour."

  He draped a towel around his neck and walked out to the pool, seeking distraction. He had just begun to oil the girl's back when the phone in the cabana rang. He wiped the oil from his hands with his towel and turned to answer it.

  "I found the information on my first query," the woman told him.

  "Yes, please, go ahead."

  "The Coast Guard had a report of an EPIRB activation two nights ago, about 50 miles west of somewhere called Bequia, and…"

  "What does that mean, EPIRB?"

  "Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon, I think. Ships and planes carry them. It sends some kind of automated distress signal, I guess."

  "Okay, so, the Coast Guard got this?"

  "Yes. It was from the boat that you asked about. There was a lot of stuff I couldn't understand about dispatching local search and rescue people, but it said they finally sent out a Coast Guard helicopter from Puerto Rico. All they found was this EPIRB thing, floating in the water, near an empty life raft that had the boat's name stenciled on it. No wreckage, no survivors."

  Camacho hung up the phone, dazed for a moment, wondering what could have happened to a 250-foot yacht that would leave no trace of wreckage and no survivors. After some thought, he decided to talk to Ozzie Johnston. He walked back into his office and picked up the phone, dialing the man's private number, hoping he would be in his office.

  ****

  Ozzie Johnston sat in his office in a drug-induced haze, having taken a double dose of the medication that had been prescribed years ago for his anxiety disorder. He had not experienced an attack in recent memory, boasting to his doctor that he was now a carrier of the disease, causing anxiety in others, but immune to it himself. He had thought that he had outgrown the problem, until his telephone call with Berger this morning.

  David and Timothy had settled him on the sofa in his office, and he had eventually quieted enough to remember the pills in his desk drawer. David had retrieved them, and Timothy had brought him a glass of water. He felt better, now, although he was having a little trouble remembering why he was worried, and that in itself worried him.

  David and Timothy had left, going to take the girl some breakfast, disappointed that he had changed his mind about the video. That was it. He remembered that Berger had called him by name. How had the man found out? What did it mean? He struggled to focus his mind, but without success.

  His phone rang, and he fumbled it out of its cradle, raising it to his ear with some difficulty. "Yes," he said.

  "Ozzie?" The voice was unfamiliar, with a slight accent.

  "Yes?"

  "You don't know me, but you know the man who works for me, the man you deal with from down at Baliceaux. You know who I mean?"

  "Big Jim?"

  "No names, please, just in case. You know who I am?"

  "He's not here right now," Ozzie said, puzzled. Why was somebody calling Big Jim at his office?

  "Do you know where he is?" Camacho asked, striving for patience, wondering what was wrong with Johnston, so early in the morning. Drunk? High? He shook his head, waiting.

  "On his boat, I guess. He's running from that little cross-eyed Cuban psycho they sent to kill him." Ozzie was finally beginning to get a grip on his thoughts, although he could only hang on for the ride. Control was beyond him. "Who is this again?"

  "His boss. Does he have the Berger woman on his boat?"

  "The cross-eyed Cuban's boss?"

  "Yes, damn it. Answer me."

  "
Sorry, yes."

  "Yes he has the girl?"

  "No. Yes, I know who you are, now. Why didn't you say so to begin with? I started to call you. Tell you he was going to run away on the boat."

  "Never mind that. Where's the girl? Is she on the boat?"

  "No. I have her."

  "Okay, now listen carefully. It's important that you understand if you want to stay alive. Are you listening?"

  "Yes, but don't threaten me. I'm a carrier. I cause anxiety attacks in other people. I don't have them."

  Camacho ground his teeth. What was the matter with this fool? He forced his jaws apart, biting out the words. "You will release that girl immediately. You and the other fool have cost me over a hundred million dollars and my nephew's life. If that girl doesn't call home within an hour, you are a dead man." He slammed the phone down, furious that he had lost his temper, furious at the idiots he was forced to deal with to make a living.

  Ozzie sat, holding the phone in his hand, examining it critically. After a minute, he realized that the man must have been Camacho, and that he had just threatened to kill Ozzie if he didn't release Danielle Berger. Did Camacho work with Berger? "That damned Rodriguez. What a mess he's got me into," he muttered, putting the phone back in its cradle and reaching for the pill bottle. He could feel another attack coming on, but before he could open the bottle, the phone rang again.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Johnston?"

  "Yes. David?"

  "Yes. I got…"

  "Never mind. Get the girl in your car. We need to move her, quickly."

  "You got the money?"

  "Never mind that, just get her ready to go."

  "Sorry, but we can't do that. She's gone."

  Chapter 35