Wrecker: A John Crane Adventure

by Mark Parragh

  “Well, that ought to get a reaction,” said Crane. “Come on, let’s get out of here, and then you can tell me what the hell’s going on.” They walked up the coast toward Punto Dorado as the wreck of the Gypsy sent up a thick column of smoke behind them.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was nearly sunset by the time Crane and Scott caught a panga back to the Emma. There was nothing left to see of the Gypsy. What hadn’t burned had sunk behind the rocks. A handful of boats remained on the scene, but there was nothing left for them to do.

  “Not a word to anybody,” Crane said as they approached the Emma. “For their sake as much as yours. Do you understand?”

  Scott blanched. He obviously wanted to think his ordeal was over, but it wasn’t quite over yet. “I understand,” he said after a moment. “It’s not safe here.”

  “They’ll want to know where you’ve been, where you got the bruises. Just say you don’t want to talk about it. I’ll give them a story to chew on.”

  Scott nodded. “Right, I don’t want to talk about it. Thank you.”

  It had been a big day in Bahia Tortugas. Between the death of Amy Carpenter, Chloe’s adventure ashore, and the wreck of a yacht in the bay, the crew would have plenty to talk about without digging into Scott’s movements.

  Still, everyone gathered around when the panga dropped them off, treating Scott like the prodigal son returned and peppering him with questions. Chloe was in a chaise on the rear deck, her leg wrapped in an orthotic brace. An uneasy silence fell as she and Scott faced each other again.

  “Hey,” Scott finally said.

  “Hey.”

  He glanced at the leg brace. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be all right. How about you?”

  Scott nodded.

  “I’m glad,” Chloe said at last.

  “Me too,” Scott replied. “That you’re okay, too, I mean.”

  Crane got Scott below decks and back into his old cabin. “Stay aboard until I can get you out,” Crane said. He didn’t think that would be a problem. When it came up, he would tell the others Scott had been waiting in a motel to hear about his job. It had somehow fallen through, and Scott was upset. He drank too much, found himself wandering the dark streets late at night, and got jumped. It was believable enough.

  In the meantime, he still had Scott’s real story, which made no sense to him.

  When he returned to the main deck, everyone was still gathered near the stern. So he went forward and sat in a bow pulpit. He connected his phone to the boat’s satellite uplink and dialed Josh’s number.

  When Josh picked up, Crane heard voices in the background. It sounded like some kind of boardroom presentation. “Give me a second,” said Josh. The voices faded, and Crane heard a door closing.

  “I’ve got to tell you something,” Josh said when he came back. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Well, that’s a coincidence,” said Crane. “I’ve got to tell you something, and I don’t know what to make of mine.”

  “Okay,” Josh said, “let’s swap the one-sentence versions and maybe that will make it clear who should go first. I think Alexander Tate’s being held prisoner so someone can control his fortune.”

  “I blew up Jason’s yacht.”

  There was a long pause until Josh finally said, “Jesus, you want to just flip for it?”

  “No, no. You’re putting up the funding. You go first.”

  “Wait, I get perks just for being rich? Sweet! All right, here’s what I’ve got.”

  Josh told Crane about his visit to Fallon Landing, and Alexander’s insistence that the accident had been staged.

  “Someone needed him out of the way, but not dead,” Crane mused. “If he dies in the crash, then his will goes into effect. Maybe that was the problem. Faking the car crash is easy enough. But then they’d have to give him injuries, including a traumatic brain injury if they want him declared legally incompetent. That sounds risky. Way too easy to end up killing him, and then they’re back to square one with the will.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking,” said Josh. “I’m wondering if the brain injury’s fake too. They’ve got him locked away under heavy guard in this little private hospital. They could be doing anything to him in there. Could the right drugs do what I saw? Is that even possible?”

  Crane thought for a moment. “Well, as it happens, I know someone who used to consult for the Hurricane Group on … very specialized medical issues. If it’s possible, she’ll have some ideas about how to do it, and maybe how to counteract it. I’ll give her a call, ask a few carefully worded hypothetical questions.”

  “Okay, let me know if you learn anything useful. Now what’s this about sinking Jason’s yacht?”

  Now it was his turn. Crane told Josh about the death of Amy Carpenter, Chloe’s attack on Jason, and what he’d discovered aboard the Gypsy.

  “So they’re not trafficking women; they’re trafficking radio engineers?” Crane could hear the frustration in Josh’s voice. “Who does that?”

  “They were looking for very specific skills. Scott was reworking the foundation’s radios, navigation gear, satellite uplinks. He was ordering a lot of specialized parts. Somebody noticed and asked if he was interested in a regular job. He was. The next day, he found himself getting interviewed by Jason Tate.”

  “That’s … odd. What did he ask about?”

  “Point to point microwave links, DC power applications, software-defined radios. I gather it was pretty thorough.”

  “And Jason knew about this stuff?”

  Crane shrugged. “Enough to do a credible job interview, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s new,” said Josh. “Did he say what the job was?”

  “He claimed he consults to Telcel on talent acquisition. I’m assuming that was a lie.”

  “So this Scott guy aced the interview and got the job.”

  “He’s got student loans hanging over him,” said Crane, “and lying out on a boat with his girlfriend wasn’t going to solve that. So yeah, he took the offer and went back to the boat to collect his things. Walked into a hell of a fight with the girlfriend. And then the next thing he knows, two thugs are stuffing him into a bag and hauling him out to Tate’s yacht.”

  “He’s lucky you found him. Where do you think Jason was taking him?”

  “No idea,” said Crane. “I’ll ask Jason that when I find him. What are you doing up there? What happens if Alexander Tate’s alive but incapacitated? Who’s handling his finances? Can’t be Jason. He’d have to show up in court, sign things in front of notaries, give depositions.”

  “I’m trying to find out,” said Josh. “The court papers list a law firm as conservator, but I can’t find them. It’s owned by a holding company, which is a partnership of about a dozen other LLCs registered all over the world. I haven’t gotten very deep yet.”

  That all sounded very familiar to Crane. It had all the hallmarks of the illegal financial structures they’d been trying to investigate for months now. Someone had built a complicated and confusing maze in which to corral Alexander Tate’s fortune. And apparently that required imprisoning him as well, in a shattered body and a fractured mind.

  “I’ve got my people trying to follow the money,” Josh was saying. “I’ll keep turning over rocks until we find something.”

  “If they’ve got some spare time, I’m going to send you a drive,” said Crane. “I think it’s got video of Jason’s bedroom.”

  Josh groaned. “Really? We’re going there?”

  “Might link him to Amy Carpenter’s death.”

  “Okay, I’ll watch his amateur porn. Actually, no, I’ll make someone else watch it. One of those rich guy perks you were telling me about.”

  Crane laughed. “In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can get the foundation people out of town, which means I’ll have to find a place to stay ashore, and this satellite link will go away. I’ll be in touch when I’ve got myself repositioned.”

&n
bsp; There was silence, with only the soft crackle of static on the connection. Then Josh said, “So you’re staying down there?”

  “Until it’s finished,” Crane said with a grim determination. “Your friend Jason is causing a lot of trouble for a lot of people. And he’s seriously pissed me off.”

  Josh paused and then said, “Good. That’s where I want you. There’s something shady going on with Alexander up here, and Jason’s caught up in something shady down there. I don’t like the coincidence. I’m guessing there’s something we don’t know that ties them both into one big shady thing. Either way, I’m not letting my end go, and you’re not letting go of yours, so we’re in this now. All resources brought to bear.”

  “Agreed,” said Crane. “Whatever’s going on, it needs to stop.”

  “Be careful down there, John,” said Josh. “Whatever this is, it’s weird, and it’s too close to home, and I don’t like it.”

  “You do the same,” said Crane. Then they hung up.

  Crane lay back on the deck as the sky grew a darker indigo and the sun sank into the Pacific. It had been a long day by any measure. He was tired. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Josh’s words. It’s weird, and it’s too close to home, and I don’t like it. This was very close to home for Josh. He knew the people involved. He apparently had emotional ties to Alexander Tate. It reminded Crane of his own relationship with Malcolm. If that was leading Josh to action, then Josh was the one who should be careful.

  But Josh was surrounded by staff and a full-time bodyguard. He had all the security that came with being a multi-billionaire. Josh would be fine.

  Then, as the sun became a red sliver floating on the water, Crane suddenly remembered something Orly Wilde had said. He’d said Boz was like the cartel’s HR department. He found people who could do things they couldn’t. At the time, he’d assumed that meant money launderers and other financial resources in the United States. What if it didn’t? What if they weren’t trafficking technicians but forcibly recruiting them?

  Why would a narco cartel want a radio engineer?

  Josh sat cross-legged on a conference table in an empty meeting room. He put down his phone.

  That was stupid, warning Crane to be careful. What does he have to worry about? He probably knows thirty-two ways to kill a man with his own socks.

  Well, he still needed support. This was supposed to be a simple trip to check up on a friend’s daughter. Josh didn’t know what kind of things Crane would pack for something like that, but it probably wasn’t the kind of things he’d need to take on a drug cartel.

  When he got back in touch, Crane would have the usual shopping list of odd things he needed, and most of it would be illegal. He should start getting the ground work in place.

  Josh tapped his watch and called one of his assistants. “Mary,” he said, “find out where Jessie Diamond is right now, please.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Tepehuanes Municipality, Durango, Mexico

  Jason Tate lay in the sun beside his pool and looked out at the mountains. It surprised him how quickly this place had become home. He’d hated the idea when it became clear he was going to have to leave the United States and drop off the radar. He’d imagined some dusty hole with an escape tunnel lined with cinder blocks, a toothless old woman to cook rabbit stew, and a cartel bodyguard with gold teeth and terrible breath.

  But in fact, the hacienda was a sprawling enclave of luxury deep in the mountains. He had all he needed here. The compound had its own water and solar power. A fiber line ran to a dedicated microwave link on a nearby mountaintop, giving him ultra-fast broadband even out here. The main house was thirty lavishly furnished rooms, and the grounds were designed by a prize-winning landscape architect. He’d done the ivy-encrusted archways along the far side of the pool, which Tate especially liked.

  The airstrip was a couple miles away on the other side of the mountain. If he wanted something, he could easily go and get it, or it could just as easily be brought to him. The naked woman swimming in his pool, for example, was a model he’d seen in magazine ads and showing off prizes on a Mexican game show. Tate reached into the cooler beside his lounge chair and grabbed a fresh Tecate. Ice cold. He took a lime wedge from a bowl on the table and stuffed it down the neck. All in all, he thought, I should have fled the country sooner.

  But he couldn’t cut ties completely. The money was still generated in California, and managing it while keeping his own role hidden took some ingenuity. Fortunately, he had partners to take care of that. One was scheduled to call this afternoon, which was why there was a scrambled voiceover IP handset on the table beside the limes.

  When it chirped at him, Tate picked it up and found himself speaking to a man named William Kim, who did the grunt work in a law office in San Francisco. They traded the usual pleasantries, and then Kim updated him on a few ongoing matters. It was routine. And then it wasn’t routine anymore.

  “Last thing,” said Kim. “It’s nothing to worry about, but it’s unusual. I believe you know Joshua Sulenski?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “He visited your father at Fallon Landing. Apparently he bluffed his way past the front desk and made it to his room. He was with your father for about five minutes before they figured out he wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  Tate stood up, his mind racing. “Did he tell him anything? Do we have a problem here?”

  “No,” Kim reassured him. “No, your father’s in no condition to communicate, and Sulenski didn’t have access to his chart or any other information about him. But it’s odd.”

  “You’re damn right it’s odd,” said Tate. He realized he was pacing along the side of the pool. “What was he doing there?”

  “We don’t know that. I was hoping you could tell me a little more about his connection to your family.”

  Tate sighed. “He’s a douche. I offered him a board seat when I was putting Diganda together, but he just screwed around until I got sick of him. He and my dad got along like gangbusters. I don’t know what they did together. Maybe my dad took him fishing or something; he was like the son he never had.”

  “So it wouldn’t be out of character for him to visit your father?”

  Tate thought, No, something doesn’t feel right about it. His instincts were signaling danger.

  “But why now?” he said. “It’s been more than a year. He never showed up before. No, something’s going on. You need to find out what.”

  “There’s been some discussion about it up here,” said Kim. “We’re prepared to look at Sulenski a little more closely. But we wanted to talk to you first. It will mean raising our profile slightly.”

  That was something that always worried Kim’s people. They were all about discretion, running quiet, not giving off signals that someone might detect. He understood the need for it, but they took it all way too seriously.

  “That’s fine,” he said after a moment. “I don’t want to ignore this. One thing about Sulenski, you never know what he’s going to do next. Him just popping up like that? No, it means something.”

  “As it happens, we concur,” said Kim. “Opinion here is that the risk is minor. We’ll take some steps.”

  “Yeah,” said Tate, “take steps.”

  Soon after, he hung up, but the vibe was shot. He got the game show model out of the pool and took her to his bedroom, but part of him remained distracted. Things like this didn’t just happen. Sulenski was up to something.

  It was later that evening when a soft but insistent beeping woke Tate. He struggled back to consciousness. The girl lay still at his side, breathing softly. His head was still fuzzy from the ecstasy tabs.

  It was the phone again, he realized. For a moment, he thought it might be Kim calling back with news about Sulenski. But the screen showed an IP address he recognized. It was the man known only as Lalo, the cartel boss, calling from Durango. This was unexpected. He rolled quietly out of bed, plucked the handset from his nightstand, and answered it
as he walked across the room and out onto the balcony. The stars glittered brightly overhead, and a night breeze cooled his skin.

  “What is it?” he said. Even with all the layers of security and scrambling, no names were used. It was just good practice.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news,” said Lalo. Then he explained how the Gypsy had been commandeered and run aground on the rocks at the south end of the bay. She’d caught fire and burned to the waterline as she sank. There was nothing to recover. The boat was a total loss.

  Tate stood stunned. The boat wasn’t the most expensive yacht in the world, but it wasn’t as though he could carry insurance under the circumstances. Replacing it wouldn’t be cheap. Nor would keeping his name off the paperwork. There would be bribes for licenses, forged documents, someone with their hand out at every step. And he’d put a lot of work into getting his cabin set up just the way he wanted it. He’d had some good times on that boat. Ah, damn! The videos he’d shot there had gone up with it.

  Then the moment of shock passed, and he felt it like a kick in the crotch. Someone did this. It was an attack on him, meant to hurt. Someone was challenging him. Tate felt that on an entirely different level. He felt his anger boiling up inside him. He’d been hit, and he had to hit back, hard.

  “Are you all right?” Lalo asked.

  “Who did this?” said Tate. “Do we know who did it?” Even as he asked the question, he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  “An American named John Crane. I believe you’ve met. Is this a personal matter?”

  “Oh, you better believe it’s personal now!” Tate snapped. “Wait. How do you know it was him?”

  “Our two friends were aboard when it happened. They gave a full report.”

  “Those two fuckups were there? Jesus! I sent them to get this guy out of my hair before, and they came back with some bullshit story. You need to get a better class of thug out there.”

  “We’re doing what needs to be done.”

  “Well, I hope you do it better than you have up to now! I want this son of a bitch dead. No! No, strike that. I want him here. In front of me. I’ll deal with him myself.”