By the time Leon reached the fence, the shouts had brought the others out of the fields. A man and two boys came running up from behind Karl, and an old man with two younger men came from Navarro’s field. Soon, the field workers were gathered with the others at the fence.
“Which one is Navarro?” Leon asked Karl.
Pointing, Karl replied, “The old man. And that is Anders.”
The older man stood slightly away from the group and seemed to be patiently waiting. Leon moved toward him, expecting him to cower, but he did not. His hair was long, past his shoulders, and completely white. He did not wear his bangs cut short like most of the indigenous people in the area. His skin was dark and the lines in his face were many. He stared at Leon, his dark eyes unyielding and inscrutable.
“You are Vicente Navarro?” Leon asked in broken Spanish.
“Yes,” the old man replied, “and I speak English.”
“Well, la-di-fucking-da,” Leon nearly shouted in English. “Karl tells me you and some others do not want to raise the crops we want to buy.”
Navarro simply stared back. At five-nine and a trim one hundred and sixty-five pounds, Leon towered over the diminutive old man.
“Why not?” Leon asked him.
“I am not a coca farmer,” Vicente replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I grow cassava for my people.”
“Your people?” Leon said, stepping closer and looking down at the old man. “You are Ye’kuana. These others are not your people.”
“Ye’kuana, Warao, Pemon, Yanomami—we are all the children of Wanadi and the forest.”
“You are going to grow what I tell you, old man.”
Vicente merely stared back in silence.
Anders spoke up, in Spanish. “We wish only to grow our food and be left in peace.”
Leon turned to face him across the fence. “Peace?” he asked, slowly drawing his large revolver from a holster at his waist. “There will be no peace, if you do not grow the coca.”
Striding toward the fence, Leon raised the gun.
Anders cowered, his head drooping.
Leon pointed the gun at the woman; she gathered the two children behind her, expecting the worst.
Moving the weapon quickly, Leon fired a single shot, hitting Anders’s field hand squarely in the chest. The large-caliber bullet lifted the boy off his feet, sending him sprawling backward in the dirt, dead before he hit the ground. The woman screamed and ran toward the dead boy.
Leon slowly turned toward Navarro. “If I come back, I will kill you all and give your land to a farmer who has more sense.” Holstering his revolver, he started back down the path toward the boat, and called over his shoulder: “Throw the body in the river!”
Karl pointed to one of his men, who bent and grabbed the dead boy by one wrist and began to drag the body toward the river. The rest of the men went ahead, none wanting to miss what would happen next.
At the river bank, with the woman and children weeping loudly, another of Karl’s men took the dead boy’s feet and the two men tossed the body out into the water. There, it floated for a moment in the still water near shore.
After just a few seconds there was movement, as if the boy’s muscles twitched. A few seconds later the body began a series of steady spasms, and within a minute the water around it began to roil and turn red with blood, as piranha swarmed in from all over this part of the river, drawn by the splash and the scent of blood in the water. Black piranha, called caribes by the indigenous people, could grow to nearly a foot long. And they had voracious appetites.
After a tour of the Alexanders’ boat and a nice dinner served on the aft sundeck, Angela and Vanessa asked Charity if they could see Wind Dancer. Charity thought quickly, and decided there was nothing out in the open that might alarm the girls or their parents.
“Sure,” Charity replied and turned to Josh and Tonia. “Care for some after-dinner wine?”
They readily agreed, and the five of them stepped over into the Dancer’s cockpit. Charity led the way down the ladder to the salon as the two girls marveled at the Dancer’s interior appointments. They were particularly impressed with the electronics.
“We have the usual navigation equipment,” Angela said. “Even auto-pilot. But what happens when you’re resting at the helm and the wind changes?”
Turning her laptop on the desk of the little nav-station, Charity explained. “I don’t know how it works, only that it does. There’s a program on my laptop that’s connected to all the navigation and electronics systems, including the auto-furlers. The wind could change all it wants, and the computer will read the direction and speed and correct the sail arrangement.”
Charity suggested sitting in the cockpit and pointed out to Josh where the wine glasses were. Opening the small cooler on the port side, she searched through several bottles until she found what she wanted.
Back on deck, Charity opened the wine and handed the bottle to Josh, noticing that he’d brought five glasses. He poured a smaller amount into the glass of his youngest daughter, who rolled her eyes in a manner typical of girls her age.
Relaxing in the cockpit as the sun went down, Charity listened to the banter among the family members, contributing on occasion. The older girl reminded Charity of herself when she was that age—which seemed like a lifetime ago.
“I have an idea,” Angela said to Charity. “Since you’re going to slow down and keep pace with our boat, maybe I could ride with you? Vanessa and I both take turns at watch on our boat. You’d be able to get more rest.”
Tonia smiled, letting Charity know she trusted her.
If she only knew what I do for a living, Charity thought.
It was definitely not a good idea, and Charity knew it. She tried to quickly think of a polite way to decline, with dozens of scenarios running through her mind. The director still hadn’t let her know when to expect the drop-off to replenish her armament and a few other things. He’d probably make it a night drop, but he’d never struck her as impulsive. He seemed to plan things out further than a few hours, so she doubted it would be tonight.
Nothing she could think of to avoid having a stranger, a civilian non-combatant, on board would make sense. She liked the young woman, so reluctantly agreed.
“Sailing is different than power-boating,” Charity said. “Do you have sailing experience?”
“Not a lot,” Angela replied. “I dated a guy in high school who sailed, and I learned a lot from going out on his boat.”
“Okay,” Charity agreed and turned to Josh. “If it’s okay with your father.”
Josh nodded. “We’ll be just a few hundred feet apart, and all she’ll really have to do is monitor what’s going on, right?”
“Right,” Charity replied. “Once the course and speed are set in the computer, it will keep the sails trimmed to maintain it.”
“It’s settled then,” Tonia said. “We should get underway.”
In minutes, the girls cast off the lines, as Josh and Charity started the engines on the two boats. Once they were turned back onto the right heading, they angled apart to a safe distance and Charity used the manual switch to unfurl the Dancer’s sails, keeping the foresail reefed, so as not to out-distance the Alexanders’ boat.
Josh hailed her on the hand-held. “Are you still on this channel, Gabby?”
Charity picked up the radio and replied, “Yes, we are. How is your water temperature?”
“Running normal. I’m going to push it up to our usual cruising speed of eight knots and see if it holds.”
Slowly, the Osprey began to pull away. After a few minutes, Josh came back on the radio. “She’s running just a little hotter than usual, but well within the normal range.”
Reaching down, Charity toggled the switch to fully unfurl the foresail. Wind Dancer came alive in the steady wind and began to slowly overtake the Alexanders’ boat. When the Dancer had closed the distance to a hundred yards, Charity stood up.
“Take the helm a minute,” she said
to Angela. When the girl was at the wheel, Charity slipped down to the salon and opened the laptop computer. She set the program to maintain eight knots, and heard the whirring sound of the foresail furler as it reefed slightly to maintain the slower speed. She took a spare safety harness from the storage cabinet below the nav-desk and returned to the cockpit.
“Put this on,” she said, handing Angela the safety harness. “Every hour while you’re on watch, I want you to check the rigging and deck equipment to make sure everything on deck is secured. The windward shroud should feel solid when you put your hand on it and the leeward shroud should have just a tiny bit of vibration while underway. Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Charity clipped and unclipped her safety line along the top cable rail as she moved forward. She checked the rigging and made sure everything on deck was still secured. Angela followed, also using her safety line, paying close attention to everything Charity showed her.
“Notice the difference?” Charity asked when they reached the starboard shroud.
The younger woman put a hand on the rigging and nodded. “The other side felt like it was a solid part of the boat. This side’s vibrating like a guitar string.”
“Good analogy,” Charity said. “A sailboat is a lot like a musical instrument, when the rigging is properly tuned.” As they made their way back to the cockpit, she continued, “Unlike a power boat, which forces its way through the water regardless of current or wind, a sailboat moves in harmony with the elements. Like a violin in the hands of an experienced musician, if one part is out of tune, it will tell you.”
With the sun slipping below the horizon behind them, Charity and Angela agreed on a watch schedule. Charity would take first watch until midnight, then Angela would take over until four o’clock. Four straight hours of sleep a night for two nights would be easy and Charity knew she’d probably be more rested than if she napped at the helm.
Besides, she thought, I can sleep twelve hours once we arrive in the Caymans.
Taking the younger woman below, Charity quickly converted the settee to a bunk and laid out the spare blankets and pillows. “We’ll hot bunk in the salon,” Charity said. “In case of an emergency, it will be three less steps to get to the cockpit.”
Back on deck, Charity settled in at the helm, taking her encrypted satellite phone out of her pocket. She quickly wrote a message to the director explaining what was going on and that she didn’t anticipate a delay because of it. Seconds after sending it, she received a reply.
I’ll meet you at Harbour House Marina for lunch in two days.
TS
She contemplated asking why, knowing that even Travis Stockwell wouldn’t risk bringing a sniper rifle and ammo into the Caymans. She decided not to ask. Whatever it was, it would just have to wait.
She replied with a single word: Affirmative.
When Thurman Napier woke up, he didn’t know where he was. Rolling over on the thin mattress, with springs poking into his ribs, he saw the bars and realized he was in jail again. He sat up slowly, the throbbing in his head taking on jackhammer proportions as he massaged his temples and tried to remember how it was he’d been arrested this time.
A clanking noise got his attention, and he looked up. The view through the bars wasn’t anything to write home about; all he could see was a blank wall on the other side of the narrow walkway in front of his cell.
The jailer stopped in front of the cell and looked in. “I see yuh awake now. Too bad. I was goin ta rattle di bars. You got a visituh.”
As the jailer stepped toward the door and inserted a key, another man moved in front of the cell: a tall man with a graying crew cut. Through the fog in Thurman’s brain, he tried to train his one eye on the figure standing in front of him.
The jailer opened the cell door and the man stepped inside.
“Leave us for a minute?” the man asked.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Thurman asked, interrupting the guard as he was about to say something.
“Yuh sure bout dat?” the jailer asked the tall man.
Travis Stockwell turned toward the jailer. “Yes, I’m sure. Go arrange for his release. Whatever bail, fines, or damages he caused, I’ll pay for.”
The guard left, locking the cell door behind him and muttering under his breath.
“Good morning, Napper,” Stockwell said.
“Nobody calls me that anymore, Colonel,” Napier replied. “And what the fuck are you doing in Port of Spain?”
Travis moved to the wall and leaned against it, where he could see the door down the narrow hall. He quickly scanned the hallway and then the cell, paying particular attention to the ceilings.
“This is the remand prison,” Napier said. “I recognize the cell. Nothing but drunks and pickpockets here. No high-tech security.”
Stockwell looked down at the man on the bunk. At fifty-five, Thurman Napier looked like a horse that’d been ridden hard for a very long time and put up wet. His face was a maze of wrinkles and a few scars. The eye patch did nothing to soften his overall demeanor. Scraggly black hair turning gray and a two-week beard, also mostly gray, gave him the appearance of a much older man.
“I came here to hire you,” Travis said. “But it looks like I have to get you out of jail first. Again.”
“What is it with you, anyway?” Thurman asked. “I don’t need or want your help.”
“Yeah, I know. You can do or be just about anything you want, Napper. God knows you have the money. Why do you continue to wallow in this cesspool of a life you created?”
“It’s my life,” Napier responded, rising to his feet. Stockwell was a tall man, nearly six feet. But as Napier slowly reached his full height, stretching and rolling his shoulders like a prizefighter, he was a head taller than Stockwell.
“Look,” Travis said, pushing away from the wall and standing by the door. “I need your help, Napper.”
“Stop calling me that!” Thurman bellowed. “I ain’t been that man for decades.”
“No, you’re a drunk wharf rat now—sleeping in gutters and dumpsters, picking up the disease of the month from every Trini hooker on the waterfront.”
“Insults ain’t gonna endear you, Colonel. Just lay out what it is you came here for, so I can tell you to go fuck yourself and this conversation will be over.”
“I need a man and a boat. Someone I trust, who can take a shooter upriver to locate, identify, and kill the leader of the brotherhood.”
This immediately got Napier’s attention. “One man?”
“Not exactly,” Travis replied. “Are you interested?”
“Why now? Why, after all the shit they’ve stirred up down there since before either of us was born, does the government want to get involved now?”
“I never said anything about the government.”
“You didn’t have to,” Napier said, stepping over to the bars and looking down the hall. “You’re you.”
“Are you interested?” Travis asked again.
Thurman lifted his patch, digging a dirty finger into the empty eye socket and flicking the crust that had collected there to the floor of the cell.
“It was the brotherhood that did this,” Thurman finally replied, adjusting the patch. “Yeah, I’ll listen to what you have to say. But that’s it. I’ll listen.”
“That’s all I ask,” Travis said, then turned and yelled down the hall. “Guard! We’re ready!”
Twenty minutes later, as the two men walked outside to a waiting car, Thurman said, “I coulda paid my own bail.”
“Wipe This still running?”
“Fastest boat on the river,” Thurman replied. “Even at twenty years old.”
“Probably more to do with your knowledge of the river than the boat.”
“I already said I’d listen, Colonel. Sucking up is beneath you, anyway.”
They got in the car, which Napier immediately recognized as an embassy vehicle. “Head toward the waterfront,” Travis told the driver. “Anywher
e there’s a public pier.”
As the car pulled out onto the street, Travis turned to Thurman. “So, what’d the TP King get busted for this time?”
Though his head still hurt, Napier quickly caught on: Stockwell’s directive to the driver, and then his asking such an innocuous question. Colonel Stockwell had always been a man of few words; he didn’t engage in idle chit-chat.
So Stockwell didn’t trust the driver.
“Same old shit, I guess,” Thurman replied. “Don’t really remember a whole lot. Probably busted up a bar or beat up a city alderman’s son.”
They rode in silence for a while. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little too old for that?” Travis finally asked, as the car turned off the road into the parking lot of a fishing pier.
“Ask the twenty-something city alderman’s son if I’m too old.”
The two men got out and Stockwell told the driver to wait for them. “My friend has to see a man about a boat.”
Walking toward the pier, Napier said, “You don’t trust the driver? What’s this shit about?”
“I don’t know the driver and I don’t trust anyone I don’t know. The babo is gaining strength and following. We still don’t even know who the hell the man is.”
“The son of the old babo,” Napier said, matter-of-factly. “Everybody knows that. And the babo is the babo. Doesn’t matter who he was before that.”
“I’m with a specialized branch of the federal government now,” Travis explained. “We—and by that I mean myself and one operative—work in the shadows and get the job done.”
Napier stopped in his tracks midway on the pier. It was late morning, and most of the early fishermen had already packed it in. There were only two men still fishing at the end of the pier.
“You’re doing wet work now, Colonel?”
“I’m the handler, and I’ve been told to eliminate the babo.”
“Babo’s a ghost, man. Some say he doesn’t even exist in this world, but can come and go, in and out of it, at will. I know he’s flesh and blood, though. At least his father was.”
Ruthless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 2) Page 3