Coastal Fury Boxset (1-3)

by Matt Lincoln

  I leaned back and started to stretch, but my arm and ribs all protested. Instead, I patted the space next to me on the sofa.

  “I’m not going to break,” I said when she hesitated.

  Emily and I went through the auction papers. She explained all the boring crap, but all I could think was how pretty her smile was and how much I wanted to kiss that mouth. She apparently felt the same way, and we tested that theory. We tested a few more theories for the rest of the day and into the night.

  For a few weeks, I thought we might have something, but then I learned our time together was going to be cut short. I was at the tail end of desk duty before being medically cleared to go on missions, when Emily dropped the news.

  “I got a job offer,” she said one day while we were at my houseboat. “They want me in Barbados. My expertise in Caribbean history is as deep as anyone professor at the university. That last night there when I caught up with my online students, I spoke with someone I thought was the librarian. Turns out he’s the university president. He asked me to apply a couple weeks ago, and now they want me there.”

  “What about your position here?” I didn’t want to be that guy who’d hold a woman back, but I really didn’t want her to go. “And your dad’s shop?”

  Emily put her hands on my shoulders, and I pulled her close. Her head was the perfect height for her to nuzzle into my neck.

  “It’s a great opportunity.” Her voice was muffled in my shirt. “It’s not forever, and I’ll find another job after it’s over.” She lifted her head and leaned back to look me in the eye. “Besides, it’ll be nice to be close to Luci and Aunt Esme. In fact, Luci’s thinking about going post-grad in history.”

  MBLIS had worked with the government in Barbados to get Luci the necessary paperwork to stay in their country. We had something set up for if she wanted to move to Miami later, as well. Even though she wanted to help people in her country, it was too dangerous for her to return to Venezuela.

  “I’m glad you three will be close together.” I matched her smile as best as I could, but I’m a selfish bastard and wished she wouldn’t go. I wouldn’t ask, though. She had her life to live. “I’ll miss you.”

  She poked me in the chest and laughed. “You can pick up some shifts for my dad until he finds help.”

  I groaned. “I’d rather pay someone myself.”

  “You can afford it.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Ethan?”

  “Yeah, Em?”

  “Find that ship. Use your money and find it for your Gramps.”

  I grinned. “Hoo-yah, baby. Hoo-yah.”

  Epilogue

  My beer had gotten warm while I told the story of the girls in the box. I nodded to Nadia, and she got me a cold one.

  “Did Emily ever come back from Barbados?” Ensign Sheets asked.

  “Emily and Luci both stayed in the Bridgetown area,” I said with a smile. “They decided to work together to fight human trafficking. And before you ask, Aunt Esme is still down there, making sure everyone eats.”

  The young sailors chuckled. One of their dates, however, pushed her way to the front.

  “What about that brand on Luci’s face?” she wanted to know. “That kind of thing can really mess with a person.”

  “You’re right,” I told her. “I saw Luci a couple of years later. She found a tattoo artist who specialized in covering bad tats. Believe it or not, Luci kept the flower, the Pride of Barbados, but colored in. They covered the trident with a scarlet macaw and greenery from Venezuela. The macaw held the flower’s stem in its beak.”

  “Wow, that sounds beautiful,” the girl said.

  “You got that right.” I took a long swallow from my blessedly cold beer. “I hear that a bunch of survivors we rescued got similar coverups.”

  “Hey, what about the pirate stuff?” that one kid, Ty, asked. “Do you still have that cannonball and silver?”

  I laughed. “Yes and no. I still own it, but I have it out on loan with a pirate exhibit that travels to different museums. The silver coins are really fragile even after Will Meyer cleaned them up. They’re in storage.”

  Now that the story was over, my audience started thinning out, especially the college kids. I shot the breeze with a few of the sailors for a while until Sheets pointed at a wall.

  “Is there a story behind that?”

  I looked over and felt a bittersweet pang. Sheets was asking about a pair of diving masks hanging together on the wall. They hung from a single hook by their straps, which were entwined with blue and yellow ribbons.

  “It’s late, guys,” I told them. “Come in again sometime. I’ll tell you the story about the owners of those masks.”

  My remaining listeners begged me to tell them more, but I shooed them on to other, more exciting things… like darts and billiards.

  “Nadia, a beer for Robbie.”

  She nodded and deftly served a draft next to the RESERVED sign at the empty stool. I sipped at my drink and watched the bubbles rise and condensation rolled down the sides to pool on the cardboard coaster.

  “Drink up, hotshot,” I said to Robbie’s place at the bar. “Drink up.”

  Author’s Note

  Hey, if you got here, I just want you to know that you’re awesome! I wrote this book just for someone like you, and if you want another one, it is super important that you leave a review.

  The more reviews this book gets, the more likely it is there will be a sequel to it. After all, I’m only human, and you have no idea how far a simple “your book was great!” goes to brighten my day.

  Also, if you want to know when the sequel comes out, you absolutely must join my Facebook group and follow me on Amazon. Doing one won’t be enough because it relies on either Facebook or Amazon telling you the book is out, and they might not do it.

  You might miss out on all my books forever, if you only do one!

  Here’s the link to follow me through e-mail.

  Here’s the link to my Facebook Group.

  Prologue

  One of the benefits of living-legend status is that it was easy to bribe a crew of Navy kids on shore leave to help at my first outdoor live-band event. Waive the cover charge and give them a little responsibility, and it was like they’d always worked my bar. The girls on my staff also appreciated help from familiar faces.

  “Hey, Charlie, that speaker’s getting in the way over there.” My manager, Rhoda, had everything so coordinated that all I had to do was check IDs and collect the cover at the door. “Nadia’s bumping into that thing every time she goes out the side door.”

  “Got it!” Charlie waved over one of the guys to handle it.

  Charlie, or Ensign Charlie Sheets, had taken the unacknowledged lead in this little band of young sailors. They reminded me of the pilots in Top Gun, so enthusiastic and full of life. Hell, Charlie looked kind of like Anthony Edwards, Goose. Sometimes that comparison gave me the chills, though. I liked the kid.

  “Do I need to show my ID?”

  I looked up from my little table and laughed. Mike Birch, the former owner of my bar, back when it was Mike’s Tropical Tango Hut, stood at the door with a wistful smile. Even in his sixties, the guy was a strong presence, and nobody would mess with him unless they had a few loose screws.

  “Hey, buddy.” I stood and offered him my hand. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Mike said with a grin. “As long as the girls don’t mind an old fool like me bumbling around their bar, we’ll be fine.”

  “Mike!” Rhoda ran up and gave him a hug. “We’re ready for you. Ethan got that old stool out for you.”

  They’d become fast friends in the months since I opened Rolling Thunder. This was the first time Mike was in to help tend bar, and I almost couldn’t convince him. Retirement was a great thing, but this was special.

  “Rhoda, cover the door, will ya?” I asked. “I gotta show Mike around the patio.”

  “Copy that,” she answ
ered with a wink. “The band’s finished with sound checks. Charlie and his Merry Sailors got all the tables and chairs re-situated. We’re ready to go.” She looked at her phone even though there was a perfectly good ship’s clock mounted above the entrance. “Two hours until showtime, boss.”

  Mike and I started toward the new section of the bar when a mighty crash rolled in through the wide double doors outside. We sprinted out to the source and found one of Charlie’s crew tangled up with a stack of folding chairs.

  “Mackenzie, you okay?” I passed a few chairs off to Mike and then one of the other kids.

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie’s newest tagalong, Mackenzie, pushed the rest of the chairs away and glared at the rack that loomed above her. “One of the wheels went out, and it dumped chairs everywhere.”

  I helped her to her feet, but she couldn’t put weight on her left ankle. Her cheeks reddened. I got it. Female sailors had a shit-ton more to prove than their male peers. Weakness was not allowed.

  “Can you move it?” I asked as the guys cleaned up the chairs behind her.

  “I’ll be fine with an ice pack,” she informed everyone. Her grimace wasn’t convincing. “I just rolled it is all. No blood, no foul.”

  “Charlie, get her other arm,” I ordered. A small crowd of early regulars, sailors, and the band had already gathered around us. “Everyone else, as you were. Someone, get that chair rack stabilized and out of here.”

  Mike met us at the bar. Even though the labels were different and countertop new, he was perfectly at home. He dug out a bag of ice from his vintage ice maker I’d gotten rehabbed, added a dash of vodka to make it stay cold, and then handed it to the walking… er, limping wounded.

  Charlie and I got Mackenzie onto one of the new stools. Someone found a sweatshirt and used it to prop her leg up on the next seat. Her ankle was swelling, and the bruise didn’t look good. I laid a dish towel over her skin and then set the ice on her ankle.

  “You oughta get that x-rayed,” I told her. Yeah, my liability insurance would take a hit for this, but I didn’t care. “Don’t mess around with ankle injuries, kiddo.”

  “I’ve been waiting a month to see this band, Mr. Marston,” she admitted. “They have some sick guitar work in their YouTube videos. I do not plan to miss this.”

  “C’mon, Mac,” Charlie pleaded. “I’ll take you in. We’ll catch these guys some other time.”

  Speaking of the band, three of the members walked up at that moment, and one had a folded shirt in hand.

  “We feel bad you got hurt,” the lead singer said. “Your buddy Jeff said you’re a fan. This ain’t much, but I got the guys and Claire to sign this for you.” He offered the shirt with a sheepish grin. “I’ll make sure you get in to see us next time we’re around.”

  “I love your original stuff,” Mackenzie blurted out. “The cover stuff is great, but I just know you’re going to do great with your own work.”

  She and the singer… damned if I can remember his name… met each other’s eyes. Now, I’m not the kind of guy to believe in that whole “zing” thing, but I swear to God something zapped between those two.

  “I’ll get it looked at after the show,” Mackenzie promised. “A few hours won’t make much of a difference.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but hey, it was her choice.

  “Hey, man.” The singer grinned at me. Uh-oh. “I heard you were some badass secret agent or something. That’s cool.”

  “Oh, dude!” another band member cried out. “You’re that guy who tells those stories!”

  Mike laughed his ass off behind the bar where he had happily occupied his old stool. I glared at him. He started the whole story-telling thing, but hey, it got Rolling Thunder some attention. I was tempted to go hide that stool of his after all.

  “I wasn’t a secret agent,” I explained to the musicians and early customers who’d wandered up. “More like an investigator, a special agent.”

  Charlie, dear Ensign Charlie, wagged his brows and grinned. Uh-huh. I had an idea of how the band found out about the stories. Sneaky kid.

  “Mr. Marston, we have some time,” Mackenzie pointed out. “I haven’t heard any of your stories yet.” She pointed at a pair of scuba masks that hung on the wall with their straps intertwined with a yellow ribbon. “Ty said you were going to tell us about those masks sometime.”

  I realized I wasn’t getting out of it this time. With a sigh, I eased into my usual seat, the one next to the only remaining stool from Mike’s days as owner. The RESERVED sign had a little dust on it, and I blew that off.

  “Hey, Mike, a little Mango Fest, huh?”

  With a quiet nod, he poured me a shot and delivered an empty one, upside down, to Robbie’s seat. He set the rum bottle next to the shot glass. By now, the kids and regulars knew the routine, and they quietly respected it.

  “About those scuba masks,” I began. “Well, folks, it’s not every day you meet your murder victims before they die.”

  1

  Bridget and Darrel “Dare” Lemon had dived the Great Blue Hole a half dozen times to prepare for this trip. It was only forty-odd miles from the coast of Belize, which made it convenient to test the gear their niece helped engineer. Divers rarely went four hundred feet deep due to cold and pressure, and the new suits were built for warmth. The extra insulation plus other modifications were also intended to make it safer for divers to linger in hydrogen sulfide zones. The acidic water could eat through metal and cause burns and sickness in divers.

  Bridget was proud of Haley for her innovation, and it was exciting to test at a site which had depth and the acidic water. The Great Blue Hole had both. It was one of the very few scuba dives ever made to the bottom of the hole, and if they got to the bottom, they’d go for a record of time safely spent at the bottom. Decompression was going to be a bitch on the way up, but it was totally worth it.

  “How’s the mask?” she asked her husband as they hovered at the no-go zone. They had full face masks to prevent burning from the hydrogen sulfide and to allow them to talk. “Any fogging today?”

  “Nah, it’s good.” Dare gave a double-okay and then clicked on his Sola Dive light. “Booty check.”

  Bridget laughed as he played the dive light across the visible seams in her gear. She noticed that light lingering on her chest. Dare was such a tease, and that was just one of the things she loved about him. When he pronounced her equipment intact, she did the same check for him.

  “Aunt Bridget, Uncle Dare, how do you copy?”

  “Looking great down here, Haley,” Dare radioed back to the boat. “Still sounding crystal clear from down here. How are you receiving?”

  “Like you’re standing next to me,” Haley answered. “Next mic check in five.”

  The radio was rated up to six hundred feet, but Bridget knew not to count on it. The Hole went down to four hundred seven feet, but the dead zone started at around two-ninety, which was already a deep dive.

  Bridget squashed a thrill of anxiety that ran down her back as she and Dare stopped kicking and allowed their bodies to sink below the usual hundred thirty-foot depth limit for Hole divers. As much as she wished to explore the deeper reef life that few divers got to witness, the day’s job was to test the gear, not do research.

  Their tanks and dive suits were designed to not only work at greater depths on compressed air but also to block out hydrogen sulfide, a noxious layer created from decaying matter in areas that got little circulation. Exposure through the skin could cause burning, nausea, and other symptoms. Divers could usually pass through these zones with little trouble as long as they didn’t linger. They could stay a bit longer if they didn’t have exposed skin, but with this specialized gear, they hoped to extend that safe time greatly. If this worked well, Haley hoped to adapt it to better tech for hazmat crews.

  “There’s the cloud,” Dare announced in a tone of reverence. “Haley, mic check before entering the dreaded acid layer.”

  “Copy loud and clear,�
�� their niece responded. “Aunt Bridget, how’s the GoPro?”

  Bridget tapped the device on her diving helmet. “Nice and secure.”

  The camera was literally out of her hands, and she was happy for it. A hundred-plus feet remained to their descent, and she liked having her hands free in murky, unfamiliar locations. She swung her dive light across the side of the Hole they’d chosen to be close to for the duration. Above the hydrogen sulfide layer, life along the wall was typical of the depth. At the top of the cloud, however, the die-off was complete. Nothing survived below that level.

  Dare swam over in front of her. “Second thoughts?”

  “No. Just… nerves.” Bridget gave him their traditional double-okay signal. “We’re doing something no one else has.”

  “Let’s get to it, then, woman!” He paddled backward a few feet and then sank. “Come on in. The water’s poison!”

  She watched his light go from white to yellow in the cloud. That alone was eerie, but that’s all it was. She took his cue and stilled her body to let gravity take over. The clear water turned murky and took on a brown hue, nothing she couldn’t handle. The two of them had been a technical dive team for two decades. And yet, she couldn’t shake a sense of unease.

  “Almost at the bottom.” Dare’s voice crackled over the radio, which was a bit unsettling. His light was still close by. “Sonar’s pinging pretty good.”

  “Roger that,” she answered.

  Bridget started kicking to slow her descent. Even with the suit’s modifications, she felt the pressure of being four hundred feet down. Their deepest dive ever was four hundred thirty a few months earlier in another location. Like then, she and Dare wouldn’t have long to explore before they had to start ascending, even with extra tanks and specialized air mixes.

  “Silt ahoy.” Dare’s announcement was followed by a sound of disgust.

  “What’s wrong?” Bridget started toward him, but his hazy silhouette waved her off.