The strange woman stopped in front of him, her eyes venomous with hate.
“Who are you?” Karl asked in English.
“Charity Styleski,” the woman replied. “The Polish Jew who is now going to kill your leader. I don’t know what Erik’s plans are for you, but if it was up to me, I’d have you take off your pants and walk out far enough into the river for the piranha to snack on your little schwanz, you fucking pedophile.”
The woman turned and walked over to stand beside Wirth. She spoke something to him, but Karl didn’t hear. Wirth pointed at one of his man and made a circling motion with his finger pointed up. The man ran toward Karl’s ATV, started it, and roared away, heading toward the trailhead and town.
Martin Beisch sat in a chair on the porch, sipping coffee. He didn’t appear to have a care in the world, comfortable that the great wall would keep out any intruders.
In the chair next to him, Leon looked at his watch. “He should be here any time.”
As if by his own order, Leon heard the sound of Aleksander’s machine slowly approaching the house. It came to a stop a few meters from the steps and the man climbed out. “Aleksander said you wished to visit the farm?”
“I wish to visit the camp of my security people,” the babo corrected him, rising from his chair.
Leon stood up and followed the leader down the steps. “Get in the back,” Leon told the farmer, as he stepped around to the driver’s side.
The man shrugged and went to the back of the machine, as Leon climbed in and started the engine. The babo climbed in the passenger seat, and Leon put the ATV in gear. He maneuvered slowly around the yard, waiting until he was on the dirt path before accelerating.
It took only twenty minutes to reach the farm. Leon passed the home of the man who ran the farm, Erik Wirth. Turning to go around the crops, he saw the farmer’s wife and daughter standing on the porch. Leon had thought about claiming the girl, but Karl had beat him to it and challenging that man was out of the question.
Rounding the edge of the farm, Leon was impressed that all of Karl’s men were formed in two lines, with Karl and Wirth standing several meters apart next to one of the large tents. A dark-haired woman Leon didn’t recognize stood off to one side as he brought the machine to a stop between the two rows of men.
Shutting off the engine and climbing out, Leon looked around at the serious faces of Karl’s security team. Glancing at Karl and Wirth, he thought it unusual that the farmer held a hunting rifle, but Karl’s hands were empty.
The babo extricated himself from the vehicle, dusting off his tan slacks. He looked from Karl to the woman, and then back to his head of security. “Who is this woman?”
Leon had a bad feeling about all of this. The woman, wearing a black sleeveless shirt and black pants, strode toward Beisch. She was very attractive and Leon looked her up and down. It was then that he noticed that she had a pistol holstered on her right hip.
“Are you Martin Beisch?” the dark-haired woman asked. “The babo?”
Ignoring her, Beisch asked again, “Who is this woman, Karl? And why are none of your men in the towers?”
Leon slowly stepped away to his left. The woman stopped a meter in front of the babo. “I will ask you again,” she said, her words coming out as though German wasn’t her native language. Indeed, she looked more like the Indian farmers to the south, only taller. “Are you the babo, Martin Beisch?”
Slowly, the babo turned and faced the woman. “Yes, I am the babo,” he sneered. “And since my security man seems to have lost his tongue, who are you and why are you here?”
“My name is Styleski,” the woman said in a quiet, even tone. “My grandfather was driven out of his homeland by Nazis, simply because of his religion.”
Beisch’s eyes widened. “You are the ferkel of a Judenschwein?”
The woman spun suddenly, leaping into the air. Leon watched as she moved in a blur, one leg whipping out and catching the babo on the side of the head, sending him toppling sideways.
Landing lightly and drawing her pistol, the woman shouted, “Say it again!” Before Leon could even touch his own pistol, the woman pointed hers at Beisch and thumbed the hammer back. “Call me a pig one more time.”
The babo struggled slowly up to one knee, holding a hand to the side of his face and looking at this strange woman, anger spreading across his features. “Kill this whore!” he ordered Karl.
The security man didn’t move as Beisch fought to get to his feet. A split lip left a trickle of blood on his chin. The fact that a Jew woman held a gun pointed at his face seemed to have no effect on the babo.
“I do not know where you came from,” Beisch said. “But here, women are property. And a Jew woman would be put in the pens to be bred like the rest of the sows.”
The gun in the woman’s hand barely made a sound. A small flame shot from the end of the long barrel and it jerked up slightly, before coming to rest pointing at Leon’s face.
The babo’s head jerked backward and he fell back at Leon’s feet, a bloody hole in the center of his forehead.
“With just two fingers,” the woman said, “slowly take that gun from your holster and toss it on the ground.”
Leon did as he was ordered, dropping his old-west style Colt .44 onto the ground. The woman bent and picked it up then looked off to her left. “Is this the man?” she asked in American English.
Leon noticed the shaman, Navarro, standing next to what he now realized were the farmers, not Aleksander’s security people.
“Yes,” the man replied, also in English. “He killed one of my neighbor’s field workers, a small boy of eleven summers. He used that very gun. Then he had his men throw the boy’s lifeless body to the caribes.”
“Do the same with your boss,” the black-clad woman said, pointing at the babo’s body with the barrel of her pistol.
Slowly, so as not to give her any reason to shoot, Leon went to the dead leader. Grabbing him under the arms, he half-carried and half-dragged the body toward the river. At the bank, he stopped and looked at the water in horror. Several bodies floated there, the red water roiling around them in what he recognized as the frenzied feeding of the big black piranha.
Breathing heavily from the exertion, and holding back the bile rising in his throat, Leon turned to the woman standing above him. “I will need help throwing the body in.”
“Perhaps in a moment,” she said, motioning with her gun. “Follow me.”
One of the farmers stepped forward and prodded him in the back with a hunting rifle. Leon followed the woman back up the hill as she holstered her pistol.
Karl seemed to be fuming with anger now. Leon knew he would feel bad for having failed his leader. Turning to Wirth, Karl growled, “Put down that gun and I will kill you in a fair fight with my bare hands.” Then he grinned at the farmer and added, “Just as I did your three whining sons.”
Wirth turned and tossed his rifle to a man standing behind him. In a flash, Karl attacked. He took a giant stride forward, closing the gap between himself and Wirth, swinging a big right hand just as the larger man turned back around. The blow landed solidly on the older man’s chin.
To his credit, Wirth didn’t go down, only staggered sideways from the force of the blow. When he stopped, he turned toward Karl, spitting blood. “You hit like a girl and fight like a coward.”
Karl stepped forward again, feinting with a left jab and then bringing another roundhouse right toward Wirth’s chin. The farmer was ready for it this time, and not fooled by the sloppy left-handed jab. He easily blocked Karl’s punch with his left forearm, bringing his right fist up into the security man’s belly.
Air whooshed from Karl’s lungs, the powerful punch nearly lifting him off the ground. Wirth hit him again in the same place, and Karl doubled over, unable to draw a breath.
Snatching him by the hair, Wirth lifted his head and drew back his own right hand. “This is for my boys!” he roared, as he struck Karl with a fist that might as we
ll have been a sledgehammer.
Karl went down to one knee, but Wirth wasn’t through. “And this is for what you did to my daughter,” he growled, bringing his bloody right fist down hard on the side of Karl’s face.
The security man dropped face first into the dirt. His body twitched once and then he was still. Wirth spun and pointed a bloody finger at Leon. “Drag this carcass to the river, as well!”
Leon looked slowly around at the men and the one woman, all staring at him. With even more difficulty, he took Karl’s legs up under his arms and slowly dragged him down to where the babo’s lifeless body lay at the water’s edge. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Aleksander was still alive; his chest seemed to be moving slightly.
Wirth, the strange dark-haired woman, and the old shaman followed Leon, who stood wheezing from the exertion. “He is not dead,” he said, between breaths.
Wirth bent and grabbed Karl by the belt with one hand and by the collar with his other. In an amazing display of sheer power, he lifted the smaller man up to his chest, then slowly pressed him high above his head. Wirth took one step into the water and heaved, sending Karl flying toward where the bodies of the other men were being picked clean by the ravenous fish.
The sudden splash scattered the school for a moment, before they realized it wasn’t a threat and went back to their grisly task. Karl’s body suddenly jerked and he began splashing around, before rising to his feet. A small piranha was latched to the side of Karl’s neck, flopping its tail as its teeth dug deeper into the man’s flesh.
Karl screamed in terror and agony, his hands going not to his neck, but beneath the water to his crotch, as he toppled over sideways. He thrashed around for a few more seconds and then stopped, his blood mixing with the blood of the others. His body floated face down and was jerked slightly by the terrible fish as they ripped out large chunks of flesh with their razor sharp teeth.
“Now the babo’s body,” the woman said, drawing her pistol again.
“I am not as strong as Wirth,” Leon said. “I cannot lift him.”
She pointed the pistol menacingly at his head and hissed, “Drag it into the water.”
Leon looked at her, horrified, the realization of what she meant slowly sinking in. He had only one chance and that was to run. But there was no place to run to. The farmers had surrounded him in a semi-circle.
Leon did the only thing he could do. Slowly, he grabbed the body of his friend and leader of the community. Getting his hands under the arms of the lifeless body, Leon began walking backward, angling slightly toward where the wall ended a few meters from shore.
When the water reached the top of Leon’s leather boots, he heaved Beisch’s body to his right, where the large black piranhas were feasting on what was left of Karl. At the same time, he dove to the left, striking out as fast as he could swim for the end of the great barrier.
If I can only make it around the wall, he thought, swimming for all he was worth.
Amazingly, he made it. Flipping over onto his back, safe at least from the guns, Leon swam in a modified back stroke toward shore, keeping his hands below the water, so as not to splash and attract the deadly fish.
The last thing Leon saw, just before darkness closed around him, were the giant teeth of a waiting crocodile.
Charity checked with the hotel desk clerk, who told her that Rene had checked out late the night before, probably before she’d left to meet Napier.
After the killings by the river, she’d radioed the one-eyed giant and, true to his promise, he’d arrived within minutes. She’d offered Vicente a ride back to his own farm, which he’d shrugged off, saying that he wanted some time with the farmers to discuss the future for the area.
The men Charity had sent to the other side of the wall were nowhere around when she’d retrieved her pack from where she’d left it by the log at the edge of the jungle. Unarmed, they faced at least a day-long hike through the dangerous jungle to any kind of civilization. If they were lucky, one or two might make it. She doubted any of them would.
When she’d retrieved her pack and ghillie suit, and was finally boarding Napier’s boat, the old shaman had been sitting beside the camp fire with Wirth. The two were sharing the old man’s pipe.
The ride back to Trinidad had been at nearly full throttle all the way, and only took a couple of hours. Charity had sat on the small seat in front of the console, not wishing to talk to Napier about what had happened at the settlement. Once they were clear of the river, the wind had buffeted her and the salt spray had mixed with the tears on her face, both stinging her eyes.
Instead of going to the dock they’d left from, Napier had taken the boat all the way to the hotel’s pier. Before they’d arrived, she’d stowed all her gear and called Devon to pick her up. He’d been waiting at the hotel entrance when she got there. She’d tossed her backpack and long fly rod case in the backseat, telling him she’d be just a moment, then she’d gone inside to inquire about Rene.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about his being gone, but part of her was relieved. On the short trip to the airport, she composed an email to Stockwell and saved it, saying only that she’d accomplished the mission with help from the people of the settlement, and she was flying back to her boat in the Caymans to relax for a week or two.
During her preflight check, her phone vibrated in her pocket, alerting her of a new message. A saved message from Stockwell congratulated her on a job well done. He said to leave the helicopter with the FBO in the Caymans and they would keep it in storage.
Though she was exhausted, she planned to fly straight through and sleep in the bird for a few hours when she refueled in Saint Croix. She wanted only to get back to her boat, sail off somewhere, and find a quiet lagoon to anchor and rest up.
When she arrived at the Cayman airport the next afternoon, a taxi whisked her to the marina where Wind Dancer was docked. She settled up with the Dockmaster, threw off the lines and slowly left the harbor. She had no particular destination, nor even direction, in mind.
As she approached Rum Point, another sailboat half a mile ahead of her turned west, so she turned east. Toggling the switches, she unfurled the sails and, and as the wind filled them, she shut down the engine. She adjusted her course a little south of east, to avoid going anywhere near the Cuban coast, then set the autopilot.
As the sun slowly slipped toward the horizon behind her, painting the clouds a rusty red color, Charity walked along the port side, checking her equipment. She stood at the bow for several minutes, leaning against the forestay as she scanned the empty sea ahead of her.
She still had no idea where she was going, wanting only distance from where she had been. She knew that ahead of her lay the island of Jamaica and, beyond that, Hispaniola.
Montego Bay might be a good place to start, she thought. I can lose myself among the thousands of tourists.
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Jesse McDermitt Series
Fallen Out
Fallen Palm
Fallen Hunter
Fallen Pride
Fallen Mangrove
Fallen King
Fallen Honor
Fallen Tide
Fallen Angel
Fallen Hero (Fall 2016)
Charity Styles Series
Merciless Charity
Ruthless Charity
Heartless Charity (Winter, 2017)
The Gaspar’s Revenge Ship’s Store is now open. There you can purchase all kinds of swag related to my books.
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I have so many people who contributed to this book, that I need to thank. As always, first and foremost come my wife and family. Without their support, I probably would never have completed the first novel, let alone this eleventh one.
My beta readers do a superb job in pointing out inconsistencies in my writing, a
nd are a huge blessing in many technical aspects. Many thanks to Dana Vilhen, Karl Schulte, Alan Fader, Chuck Hofbauer, Ron Ramey, Debbie Kocol, Jeanne Gelbert, Katy McKnight, John Doe, and Mike Ramsey. Without your help, this book wouldn’t be nearly as good. Particular gratitude is owed to my close friend, Army Warrant Officer Paul Deaver. Paul is an active duty Apache helicopter pilot, and helped enormously with the flight scenes.
I also want to thank the whole Down Island Press team for an exceptional job getting this book to print on schedule. Editor extraordinaire Tammi Labrecque, with Larks and Katydids, and proofreader Donna Rich worked many hours fixing all my many mistakes; thank you both for your dedication to the written word. I also owe a lot of thanks to Colleen Sheehan of WDR Book Design for the quality formatting job and Shayne Rutherford of Wicked Good Book Covers, for an exceptional job with the book’s cover.
Many of my readers contributed ideas and suggestions for this book. Thank you Bob Morrison, Gene Dugan, Patrick Burns, Sam Wagner. Chuck Hofbauer, Len Capelli, Carl Nielson, Gray Davis, Leslie Bright, Bill Black, Patrick McBurnette, James Sinnett, LaVon Ritter, and Cliff Barth. A special thanks to Peter Asselin for suggesting Thurman Napier’s very unique boat name, Wipe This.
Ruthless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 2) Page 20