She grinned. “Thanks.”
“I was talking about me.”
She shimmied and her breasts did their magical dance. “And am I not also a sexy sunbather, mister?”
“Wow, yes. You make great boat candy.”
“Boat candy?”
“Boat candy is a beautiful woman who makes the boat she’s on look better. It’s like arm candy except you decorate the boat instead of my arm.”
“Thanks...I think.”
“Oh, it’s a compliment.”
“Okay. But I have a question.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The answer is yes.”
Terry dimpled. “Not that question. I’ll ask that one after we finish our wine. It’s a different question, about the case.”
“Fire away.”
“What happens to Ike’s escape money he transferred out of the country?”
“Vicky is after that like a mongoose on a cobra. The money is on a South Pacific island with nice beaches and plenty of palm trees. Vicky told me she has to travel there to get it. She said it’ll take a few weeks.”
“Sounds like a nice place to take a business trip.”
“It is.” I set my wine glass down. “She invited me to go with her.”
Terry leaned away from me. “Business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. She leaves in three days.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “What did you answer?”
I put my hand on her knee. “I told her I couldn’t go, because I was involved with someone—someone I care a great deal about.”
Terry got up and sat on my lap. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And you’re welcome to stay right there.”
Terry leaned her head on my shoulder and relaxed for a few minutes.
We continued to sip our wine.
She squirmed. “It’s not romantic to say so, but I’m getting sweaty here. I’m going to sit in the shade for a while.”
She stood up and refilled our wine glasses before sitting in a deck chair. “So what happens to Ramon Gomez?”
“Felix took him back to Mexico where he’ll stand trial with Ramona for killing one or more husbands.”
Terry raised her sunglasses with one hand and looked at me underneath them. “Chuck, are you staring at my boobs from behind those sunglasses?”
“I’m a private eye; I’m looking for clues.”
“Clues to what?”
“If I look long enough, I’ll think of something.”
She laughed and replaced her sunglasses. “What about Hopper and Turbot? How do you feel about them? Are they still missing?”
“The cops won’t find their bodies. The mob used them for chum somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Why didn’t the mob guys overdose them like they did Lucas?”
“Who’s to say they didn’t? An overdose is more plausible for Lucas. Turbot was an upstanding citizen. So he had to disappear. Either way, it’s Karma.”
“Karma? Who’s that?” she asked.
“Karma’s not a ‘who;’ it’s a ‘what.’ It’s a Buddhist thing, like cause and effect. A person’s actions, good and bad, come back to them later.”
“You mean like ‘As you sow, so shall you reap’?”
“It’s the flip side of the Golden Rule.”
“You mean the ‘she who has the gold makes the rules’ rule?”
“No, the original ‘do unto others’ rule. The flip side is ‘however you treat others is the way you’ll be treated.’”
“So you think the universe just got even with them?”
“Yep.” I sipped my wine.
“I like your style, McCrary.” She raised her glass. “To us.”
“To us.”
We drank, the silence stirred only by the lap of small waves against the hull. A line of pelicans skimmed low across the bay headed for a place only pelicans know.
After awhile, Terry said, “I wish we could stay here forever and watch pelicans and listen to the silence.”
“Mmm.”
“Chuck, you remember that first time we went to the beach, when you asked me if we were a couple?”
I nodded. “You said, ‘A couple of what?’”
She reached over and put her hand on mine. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Now? Before lunch?” I winked, then realized she couldn’t see it behind my sunglasses.
“And after lunch too. But that wasn’t all I planned to make up to you. Do you remember that day at the beach, I told you I wanted to see where our relationship was going?”
“Yes.”
She brushed her fingers across my lips. “I like where this relationship is going. If you still want to ‘be a couple’ as you put it, I’m in. I don’t promise forever; it’s too soon for that. But I promise that you and I can have an exclusive relationship until one of us says otherwise.”
I raised my glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
And I did.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to my ol’ buddy Christopher Sylvanus Barker III for his valuable advice and research regarding the firearms mentioned in this novel. Chris and I have been best buds since high school.
Thanks to Royce D. Wilson of SRI Investigation in Tampa, FL. Royce was Director of Forensics at the Sheriff’s Office in Tampa and is currently a private investigator who reviewed my draft for technical accuracy on both police and PI procedure. Any inaccuracies are solely my responsibility.
A big thank you to my editor Marsha Butler. Her website is http://www.butlerink.com. She makes me a better writer.
My thanks also to my cover designer Michael Butler of Michael by Design. I enjoy working with him. His website is http://michaelbydesign.com/.
About the author
Dallas Gorham is a sixth-generation Texan and a proud Texas Longhorn, having earned a Bachelor of Business Administration at the University of Texas at Austin. He graduated in the top three-quarters of his class, maybe.
Dallas, the writer, and his wife moved to Florida years ago to escape Dallas, the city, winters (Brrrr. Way too cold) and summers (Whew. Way too hot). Like his fictional hero, Chuck McCrary, he lives in Florida in a waterfront home where he and his wife watch the sunset over the lake most days and where he has followed his lifelong love of reading mysteries and thrillers into writing them in his home office. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Florida Writers Association. He also chairs the Central Florida annex meetings of the Florida Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America because he can’t get anyone else to take the post.
When not writing fiction, Dallas is frequent (but bad) golfer. He plays about once a week because that is all the abuse he can stand. One of his goals in life is to find more golf balls than he loses. He also is an accomplished liar (is this true?) and defender of down-trodden palm trees.
Dallas is married to his one-and-only wife who treats him far better than he deserves. They have two grown sons whom they are inordinately proud of. They also have seven grandchildren who are the smartest, most handsome, and most beautiful grandchildren in the known universe. He and his wife spend waaaay too much money on their love of travel. They have visited all 50 states and over 90 foreign countries, the most recent of which was Morocco, where their cruise ship stopped at Agadir (don’t bother).
Dallas writes a blog at http://dallasgorham.com that is sometimes funny, but not nearly as funny as he thinks. The website also has more information about his books, including the characters. If you have too much time on your hands, you can follow him on Twitter at @DallasGorham, or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DallasGorham.
Hello from Dallas Gorham
Now that you have finished my novel, can I ask you a favor? Please go to the website where you bought it and write a review. We authors live and die by our reviews. Your review can help someone else decide whether they might like my book.
Thanks.
Your entertainment is the reaso
n I write. I would love to hear from you now that you’ve finished reading my story. Email me at [email protected]. Tell me how you liked my story and what you’d like to see Chuck McCrary do next. Or tell me anything else on your mind.
All the best,
Dallas
Also by Dallas Gorham
I’m No Hero
A short story thriller introducing Carlos McCrary when he was a sergeant in the U.S. Special Forces in Afghanistan. Available on Amazon.com. Free to Kindle Unlimited members.
###
On a clear night in June 2006, Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha 777, the Triple Seven, gets their mission: Free an Afghan mountain village from a ruthless Taliban blockade that is starving the people to death. The village’s crime? They educated girls in the village school.
A courageous young boy from the village sneaks through the hot summer night to escape the Taliban blockade. He runs ten miles barefooted to get help, arriving at an Afghan National Army garrison with bloody feet. He seeks the help of Afghan Major Ibrahim Malik. But Malik knows that his ANA small force is no match for the well-armed Taliban terrorists. Malik and the boy come to the Green Berets of the Triple Seven for help.
The Taliban have a larger force, heavily armed with Kalashnikov AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenades. The Americans must rely on their equipment, their training, and themselves.
This is a story of Sergeant Carlos “Chuck” McCrary, a Mexican-American Green Beret, and his team of soldiers who risk their lives to save two thousand Afghan townspeople they have never even met. Chuck and his fellow Special Forces soldiers live the motto: “We own the night.” They set off in the darkness to defeat the Taliban and break the blockade. But when the soldiers of the Triple Seven don their night vision goggles and show up in the dark hours to liberate the village, they are surprised and outnumbered by an ambush of heavily-armed Taliban terrorists.
The soldiers of Team Triple Seven must fight for their lives, or the villagers won’t be the only ones the Taliban wipe out.
A preview of
I’m No Hero
Chapter 1
Operational Detachment Alpha 777
Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion
7th Special Forces Group (Airborne), Team 7
Mountains of Central Afghanistan, June 2006
Sergeant Chuck McCrary had spent most of his watch crouched behind two Volkswagen-sized boulders at the top of a rocky foothill. His knees were killing him. Wonder why they call it “standing guard” when I spend most of my time hiding in the rocks? Two days into the Triple Seven’s training mission no one had taken a shot at him yet, so he couldn’t really complain. He yawned in the dry night air. He was starting to relax.
A scraping sound on the rocks below snapped him back to full alert. He raised his sound-suppressed carbine and peered down the scrubby hill through his night vision goggles. Two ghostly green images climbed toward him on the rock-strewn trail. McCrary’s gut knotted as he recognized the distinctive shape of the Kalashnikov AK-47 slung over the shoulder of the larger figure. He steadied the crosshairs in the center of the man’s chest, but kept his finger off the trigger.
The man made no effort to be stealthy; he seemed to want to be noticed. His cigarette glowed brightly through McCrary’s goggles. Probably Afghan National Army, but better safe than sorry. A smaller figure, limping badly, accompanied the man. Either a woman or child. Gotta be a boy. No woman would be out here with a man unless he was her husband or a family member. And no man in his right mind would want a female family member out at night in this neighborhood.
The two stopped about fifty yards from McCrary’s post. The glowing cigarette flew off the trail into the darkness. A flashlight flicked on, and McCrary flipped up his goggles to avoid being blinded.
The taller figure waved the flashlight. “I am Major Ibrahim Malik,” he called in accented English. “I have a local boy with me. May we approach?” He lit up his own bearded face with the flashlight so McCrary could see the ANA rank insignia on his brown beret. The knot in McCrary’s gut loosened. He lowered his carbine but kept it at the ready. “Come on up.”
Malik and the boy climbed the dusty hillside to where McCrary waited. He aimed his flashlight at the boy, who wore a shapeless tunic over ragged pants, his bare feet caked with what looked like dirt and blood. That explains the limp. “Does the boy need medical care, Major?”
“Yes, but I will…” he groped for the English words “…take care to him when we return to my barracks in Dashkalah. Captain Ramirez said I must come to him if your team could help us.”
“Please wait here, Major.” McCrary keyed his mic. “Toro, tell the boss that ANA Major Ibrahim Malik is here with an Afghan boy. Bring some water and a couple of energy bars, will you?”
Sergeant Torres arrived a few minutes later. “I brought some MREs too, Chuck.”
McCrary looked at the boy. “Meals-ready-to-eat?”
The boy nodded and grabbed the food.
Torres patted the boy’s shoulder and turned to the major. “Follow me, please.” As he led the two Afghans into the interior of the outpost, McCrary shined his flashlight on the boy’s footprints—a trail of red splotches—and shook his head.
Minutes later Torres returned. “I’m to relieve you, Chuck. Boss wants to see you.”
As McCrary stood to go, Torres stopped him. “Did you speak to the major in Pashto?”
“No, he spoke to me in English first.”
“Good. Boss said not to let him know you speak the lingo.”
“Boss doesn’t trust the guy?”
Torres laughed. “Boss don’t trust nobody. You know that. ‘Be polite. Be professional. But always have a plan to kill everyone you meet as quickly as possible.’”
McCrary laughed and made his way to the rough stone building that served as the Triple Seven’s temporary command post. He knocked twice on the wooden frame of the empty doorway.
“Enter.”
McCrary pulled aside the curtain, took two steps inside. “You wanted to see me, boss?”
Captain Ramirez sat across from Major Malik at a rough-hewn table in the center of the small room. The boy sat on one side, arms wrapped protectively around one of the MREs, wolfing down the food by lantern light. Ramirez waved McCrary in. “Sit down, Chuck. You need to hear this.” He looked to the Afghan officer. “Go ahead, Major.”
Malik gestured at the boy. “This is Atash. He is twelve years. He live in the village of Ghar Mesar.” The boy heard his name and looked up from his food long enough to nod.
“Atash walked fifteen kilometers tonight from Ghar Mesar to my headquarters.”
That explains the bloody feet, McCrary thought.
“He is very brave.” He turned back to the Americans. “The Taliban starve his people. They will no allow food into town, and they will no allow the people to go outside the walls to pick fruit from the orchards or feed the animals.”
“Tell the sergeant why, Major.”
Malik put a hand on Atash’s shoulder. “The Taliban raid the village school three days ago because it teach girls.” He glanced at Atash. “They cut off the magistrate’s head and rape and murder his wife and daughter. They burn the mosque with the Imam and his wife inside. Atash father was Imam. The Taliban… blockade? Yes?” Ramirez nodded. “Blockade Ghar Mesar to make example of the people.”
Malik looked at Atash and spoke a few words to him in Pashto. The boy thrust his empty MRE tray away and jumped up, his fist raised toward the ceiling. His eyes blazed in the lantern light as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then spoke rapidly in Pashto.
McCrary silently translated the boy’s words. I will kill them all.
The boy seemed on the verge of tears. McCrary looked at the major. His eyes were moist also. McCrary’s mouth compressed into a thin line as he envisioned the horrors Atash had survived, the guilt the boy might feel because he’d survived when his own family had not. “So Atash snuck out tonight to go for help?”
&nbs
p; “Atash ran from Ghar Mesar to Dashkalah in the dark. He tell the local Imam about his people’s troubles. The Imam bringed him to me.” Malik looked at Atash. “How much food do you have?”
The boy frowned as he answered in Pashto. “They won’t let us milk our goats or pick our apricots. My neighbor has been feeding me, but they have no more.”
Malik turned back to the Americans. “He say the village is soon out of food.”
Ramirez tapped two fingers on the battered wooden table. “Show us on your map what we’re up against, Major.”
With calloused hands, Malik unfolded a wrinkled map of the province and spread it on the wobbly surface. He questioned Atash again and translated his answer. “The Taliban are in the town hall on the square.” He tapped a spot on the map with a nicotine-stained finger. “Here.” The worn topo markings showed a hill rising steeply above the town square with a rectangular building indicated on top.
McCrary pointed at the rectangle. “What’s that, Major?”
Malik questioned the boy.
Atash answered, “Old stone building. Thick walls.” He gestured, indicating the thickness of the walls. “We climb the rocks and play in the building. It’s very old and it’s empty.”
Malik said, “That must be Mughal fort.”
McCrary asked, “Why aren’t they holed up there?”
Malik shrugged. “I know many of these places. These old stone forts are four hundred years old, from the kingdom of Sher Khan, the Mughal Emperor. He build many small forts. Thick walls to fight a siege, but no other military value. No water, no indoor plumbing, no electricity. The Taliban do not worry about a siege.”
McCrary studied the map. “Forty meters above the village, though. Good view of the surrounding area.”
Malik spoke to Atash, then translated. “Atash play in the fort many times. He say is one path to the top, carved in the rock by the Mughal. It starts on the side away from the square and winds around the hill as it climbs to the top. Too hard to get in and out. The Taliban can no be up there if they want to keep the people in the town.”
Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 25