Ruthless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 2)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Jenifer started to follow after them, but Karl put a hand on her shoulder. “Better if you wait here,” Karl said, removing his hat. “You look beautiful, as always.”

  Her face colored slightly at the older man’s compliment. Though they were scheduled to be married in just a few months, the hand on her shoulder was the first physical contact the two had ever had.

  “Why is the babo here?” Jenifer asked.

  “The flying machine yesterday has him worried,” Karl replied, unsure if she knew what a helicopter was.

  “I saw it,” she said, as Karl took a step closer. “I had heard stories of such things, but have never seen one. The babo seems to rely on you very much.”

  Unintelligible shouting could be heard from beyond the wall. A moment later, Wirth came through the door looking flushed, Beisch right behind him.

  “Karl!” the babo shouted at him. “The far field looks deplorable! A man could walk across it in a crouch and not be seen. Send every available man through there and get that corrected!”

  Wirth was already shouting orders to the men in the field. Jenifer started to follow them through the door, but the babo stopped her. “This is men’s work, child. You stay here.” Then Beisch turned to Karl, a knowing look on his face. “Keep the women and children working in the field, Karl. I will direct the men personally.”

  Beisch followed the last of the men through the door and closed it behind them. Orders were shouted, though the wall was too dense and too high to make out what any of them were saying. Jenifer started to turn back toward the field, and Karl stopped her with a hand on her shoulder again.

  “The other women know what to do,” he said. Reaching out and putting his hands on her narrow waist, he drew her closer to him. “We will be husband and wife in just a few months. I think it is time we got to know each other a little better.”

  When Napier woke up, it was already light out. The Fleming woman—and he was sure that wasn’t her real name—had dropped him off at his house the previous afternoon before flying back across the mountains to the airport. She’d given the boat a cursory inspection, leaving him with instructions to have it in the water and ready by tomorrow morning.

  The woman’s flying scared the hell out of Thurman, even though he’d flown in choppers in combat situations before. It wasn’t so much her flying that scared him. There hadn’t been a second when she didn’t seem to be in complete and total control. It was more about her calculated coldness at the controls. If the chopper had had guns mounted on it, Aleksander would have been opened up like a ripe melon before he could have shouldered the rifle. That much, Napier was sure of.

  At times, it had seemed like she was two different people. The cold and calculating one seemed to be in control most of the time. But just below the surface Thurman sensed a cauldron of emotion that seemed ready to explode without warning. That was what scared him. When it happened, and he was certain it would, he didn’t want to be anywhere around her.

  He’d spent the rest of the evening checking the boat over very closely, and thinking. He filled the gas tanks and inspected fluid levels. The engines were new; the tachometers barely moved when the keys were turned on, indicating almost no hours on the engines. He’d drained a small amount of oil from each engine’s crankcase and filtered it through a coffee filter, expecting to find minute metal shavings, but there weren’t any.

  Once he’d finished his inspection, he’d driven down to one of his favorite waterfront dives, where he nursed a brace of beers while thinking about what this trip upriver might bring. By the time the bar closed, he’d all but made up his mind to tell Stockwell to come and get the boat, he wanted no part of this.

  The new bartender, a young island woman named Jade, was also one of the Trinidad’s better-looking prostitutes. He’d offered her a hundred dollars to come back to his house with him and spend the night. She’d jumped at his proposition immediately. A hundred bucks was a lot of money here, but was nothing to Thurman.

  She wasn’t in the bed, so Thurman got up and walked naked into the next room, looking for her. From the kitchen, he heard a quiet voice singing an island melody.

  Hearing him approach, Jade turned to face him. “Yuh want breakfast, yuh go put on some clothes.”

  “How ’bout I just eat you for breakfast?” he grumbled, sniffing the air like a bear. He didn’t know what he had in the kitchen to cook, but something smelled good.

  Jade looked him up and down, lingering on his manhood for only a moment. “Yuh done had ’nuff a dat cyat last night. Me? I’m hungry for some real food, dis morning.”

  Thurman went back to the bedroom and scrounged around in a dresser for a clean pair of shorts, then returned to the kitchen, pulling them up as he came up behind her. “I didn’t know there was any food here.”

  “Jest some canned meat,” she replied, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. “And yuh birds provide a few eggs. Yuh take me home after we eat?”

  He sat down at one of the two chairs by the small table and watched her as she worked at the stove. She wore a pair of cut-off jeans and a bikini top, standard island attire.

  A tiny wisp of a woman, Jade had plenty of curves in all the right places and cocoa-colored skin, only slightly darker than his own weathered complexion. In the States, she’d have been considered an exotic beauty. At barely five feet tall, the top of her head barely reached the middle of Thurman’s chest.

  “I’m headed down there in a coupla hours,” he replied. “Gotta deliver a boat.”

  Tossing her long black hair over her shoulder, Jade looked back at him. “Coupla hours? More bull gonna cost yuh more money, Mister Cyclops.”

  Thurman didn’t mind the nickname, particularly from a woman he’d tossed around on his big bed the night before. “You know I’m good for it, baby.”

  She smiled broadly at the prospect of even more money, then placed two plates on the table. “Yuh eat first, Uncle. Big ole bull gwon need more energy for di next round. Jade not gwon be easy on yuh, dis time.”

  She sat down next to Thurman, and they both ate quickly. When she was finished, Jade left the dishes on the table and disappeared into the bedroom.

  When she returned, she had the big blanket from Thurman’s bed rolled up under one arm. She grabbed his hand, leading him to the front door. “I wanna do it outside,” she said. “More room.”

  With one hand, Thurman scooped her up over his shoulder and carried her toward the front door.

  “Put me down!” she yelled, as he ducked to get through the door and out into the sunlight. “I don like being up dis high.”

  He shifted her body around. Bringing her down in front of him, but not letting her feet touch the ground, Thurman cupped her ass in his two huge hands. Jade squealed and wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his thick neck, nibbling and biting at his shoulder. As she started grinding her body against him, moans and squeaks escaped her, and Thurman carried her out onto the grassy lawn on the side of the house.

  Dropping the blanket, Jade arched her back, clasping her fingers around Thurman’s neck and rocking her hips against his. He put one arm around her tiny waist and held her there, as she arched back even more, releasing her hold on his neck. With his other hand, Thurman pulled the strings of her bikini top and let it fall away, massaging her breasts. Jade pulled him deeper with her legs, spurring him like a wild bronco as she rode him in a nearly inverted position.

  Arching her back even more, Jade stretched her arms out to the ground. With her palms flat on the grass and her hips thrusting against him with wild abandon, she moaned loudly as her whole body quivered.

  Thurman lowered her to the ground, where she moved her body around, spreading the blanket under her. Standing over her, Thurman said, “Damn, girl. You coulda waited till we at least got our pants off.”

  An hour later, the two of them lay side by side on the blanket, both their bodies glistening with sweat in the mid-morning sunlight. She wasn’t lying, he thought, his chest he
aving to get more air to his oxygen-deprived lungs.

  “You were going easy on me last night.”

  “Dat’s what I say,” Jade replied with an impish grin as she reached over and fondled him. “Old bull can’t come charging outa di gate all at once. He gotta go slow di first few times.”

  Thurman chuckled, then struggled to his feet. “Let’s get dressed, then you can help me hook up the boat.”

  Jade was on her feet quickly, picking up the blanket and shaking the dirt and grass off it. Seeing that Thurman was still somewhat unsteady on his feet, she picked up his shorts and tossed them to him.

  “Yuh can feed me again, when we get to town,” she said, wiggling to get her cutoffs up over her wide hips. She looked around the yard. “What boat?”

  Thurman pointed toward the old hangar with his chin, as he stepped into his shorts. “It’s in there.”

  Tossing the blanket over the rail on the side of the porch, Jade started that way, not bothering to put on her bikini top. “Show mi dis boat.”

  Thurman caught up to her and muscled the big hangar door to the side, the old, rusty wheels squeaking in protest.

  “Dem old wheels like di Cyclops,” Jade said stepping into the hot, humid air inside the hangar. “Dey jest need a little grease, to get to moving easy.” As Thurman pushed the other door open, Jade went to the boat, walking along the side and tracing her hand along the sleek black hull. “What a boat like dis for?”

  “A guy gave it to me,” Thurman said. “In exchange for taking some psycho up the Manamo.”

  “Is a pretty boat,” Jade said, stepping up onto the trailer fender.

  “Go ahead and climb in, if you want.”

  She scampered over the gunwale, landing lightly in bare feet on the deck by the console. “Yuh say yuh taking it back? Why yuh not keepin’ it?”

  Though she was standing on the boat’s deck, she was only a few inches above eye level with him. With her hands on her hips, her feet apart, and her pert breasts pointing toward the hangar’s rafters, Thurman had a vision of being out on the water with this beautiful little woman.

  “What I’d have to do to keep it is too dangerous,” he said, climbing aboard.

  “Ha! Too dangerous for di Cyclops? I seen yuh take on four men, all of dem much younger dan yuh. What so dangerous ’bout goin’ up di river?”

  Not seeing any harm in telling her, Thurman replied, “I’d have to take some crazy woman up there to kill the babo.”

  The fear in Jade’s eyes was clearly visible. “Kill di babo? How can yuh kill someting dat cannot be killed?”

  “Good question,” Thurman said, sitting down on the forward bench seat and pulling her onto his lap. “And I got no idea.”

  “Boat like dis,” Jade said, smiling and squirming around to get comfortable, “could be a lot of fun down dere in town. And all yuh gotta do is take dis woman up di river? How dat be dangerous to di Cyclops?”

  Thurman considered the question, as Jade tugged at the button on his shorts, freeing and slowly stroking his member. “Another good question,” he moaned, as she knelt down on the deck between his knees.

  Travis Stockwell pulled his SUV into the little marina at the foot of the bridge to No Name Key and parked. The charter fishing boat he was meeting was just entering the basin, its sleek black hull shining in the early morning sunlight. He climbed out and grabbing a small bag from the back, proceeded down to the dock.

  Stockwell had announced his retirement months earlier and taken a job as first mate aboard this boat. It had all been a ruse, though. To act as Charity’s handler, he needed to disassociate himself from the power brokers in DC.

  Just as the boat bumped the fuel dock, Pescador, the big black dog in the cockpit, lifted his shaggy head and barked a greeting. Travis stepped aboard and the man at the helm reversed the port engine, expertly spinning the boat away from the dock and turning back toward the entrance.

  Quickly stowing his go-bag in the salon, Travis went up the ladder to the bridge. “What the hell’s going on down in Key West that you gotta drop everything and go down there all of a sudden?”

  “Just meeting someone,” Jesse McDermitt replied. “Might be an overnighter. Glad you brought your bag.”

  Since his faked retirement, Stockwell had been working as McDermitt’s first mate aboard Gaspar’s Revenge, a luxury offshore fishing boat. The job was just a cover, providing Stockwell with time and proximity to support Charity on her missions. For McDermitt, the charter business was sort of a cover, as well. The man didn’t need to work; he was worth millions. When needed he provided reliable transportation for Homeland Security’s Caribbean Counter-terrorism Command.

  Stockwell sat down in the starboard seat and looked at the big man at the helm curiously. “Come on, Jesse. You don’t need me along just to visit someone in Key West. What gives?”

  McDermitt gave him the rundown on what had happened the previous day at the Rusty Anchor, a local watering hole in Marathon. The story involved some cocaine dealer named Bradley and a kid who’d stolen from him.

  When McDermitt finished, Travis thought about it for a moment. “What makes you think you can do anything to help this kid and why would you even want to help someone who ripped off a coke dealer in the first place?”

  McDermitt ignored him while he turned the big boat into Bogie Channel and brought it up on plane, steering southeast into Spanish Harbor, navigating by sight. He had the latest in state-of-the-art navigation equipment, but knew the waters of the Middle Keys so well he rarely used any of it. Ahead were the two bridges spanning the narrow channel between Scout Key and Big Pine Key. Once clear of the bridges, McDermitt pushed the throttles up to forty knots and started a wide, sweeping turn to the southwest.

  “I don’t know that I can help him,” McDermitt finally replied. “But last night I looked up this Bradley guy on the Internet and saw a picture of him with someone else. His accountant, a guy named Chase Conner.”

  Travis scratched the side of his face, thinking. “I know I’ve heard the name. How do I know him?”

  “You don’t, but I do. Deuce may have mentioned him to you. He was the guy that bugged my boat last year and put everything into motion that cost a lot of people their lives and ended up with Doc taking a bullet in the back protecting me, not to mention getting my boat blown up.”

  Deuce Livingston was currently filling Stockwell’s seat in DC, furthering the subterfuge that Stockwell had retired to work as first mate for McDermitt, a job once held by Bob “Doc” Talbot, a former Navy Corpsman.

  “Ah, so you’re seeking retribution,” Travis said. “Yeah, something like that. If the opportunity arises. I’m going to pretend to be a big-time drug dealer, shake the trees and see what kind of rats fall out. I had Chyrel create a phony identity for me.”

  Stockwell’s expression remained unchanged, pretending he hadn’t been in contact with the group’s IT guru since his so-called retirement. “When did you speak to her? How’s she doing?”

  “I video-conferenced with her last night. She was at home in Homestead. Seems to be doing okay.”

  The men rode in silence for several minutes, before McDermitt said, “Take the wheel, Travis. I gotta learn who I am.”

  Switching seats, McDermitt put his feet up on the console, opened the file and started to read the fake bio. The whole thing was news to Stockwell, though Deuce was still keeping him in the loop and he was still the one calling the shots. He’d spoken with Miss Koshinski just two days ago, as well.

  After a while, McDermitt closed the folder and said, “While we’re down there, I’ll be Stretch Buchannan, a medium-level cocaine distributor out of Key Largo. You’re my bodyguard and we’re down there to check out someone nosing into my distribution territory.”

  “This GT Bradley?” Stockwell asked. If Chyrel knew something and hadn’t passed the information on to him, he wanted to get to the bottom of it. But he also didn’t want to allow his true status to get out. He knew McDermitt pretty well,
and was sure that he could be trusted, but now wasn’t the time to tell him anything about Charity’s mission.

  Careful where you step, Stockwell thought.

  McDermitt handed him a printout with a picture of two men, obviously taken from a newspaper headline. “That’s Bradley on the left,” McDermitt said. “And his chauffeur, Erik Lowery. The guy behind them is Chase Conner.”

  “You sure? His face is only partly in the picture and a little out of focus.”

  “It’s him,” McDermitt replied.

  “And he’s in Key West, too?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But if I can swing it, it’d sure be nice to find out exactly where he is.”

  Travis looked straight ahead, glancing at the photo to commit it to memory. He handed it back to McDermitt, who continued to read the fake background Chyrel had created for him.

  Finally, Travis broke the silence. “I still don’t understand why you wanted me along.”

  McDermitt stowed the folder. “My relationship with Deuce goes back a long way. I’ve known the guy since he was a kid. His dad and I were friends.”

  Stockwell glanced over at McDermitt, holding his gaze. At first his eyes were intense, as if McDermitt had struck a nerve. Travis forced a neutral expression. “You’ve totally lost me now, Jesse.”

  “Deuce was raised by a Marine, and he’s a SEAL,” McDermitt said, an edge to his voice. “There’s more honor in that man than anyone else I know, Colonel.”

  McDermitt hadn’t called him that since Stockwell had stepped down from his position as associate secretary. Stockwell’s jaw muscles contracted as he stared straight ahead.

  “What exactly did you and Miss Koshinski talk about last night?” Stockwell asked, trying but failing to hide the irritation in his voice.

  “Her orders were clear,” McDermitt replied. “You don’t have to worry. She’s a team player all the way. But I don’t like being lied to, especially by people I consider a friend.”

  Stockwell dropped the façade, knowing that Jesse had probably figured out a thing or two. In a more official tone, he said, “Above your paygrade, Jesse.”