Harley pulled his Caddy through the gate, relocked it, and parked beside Duke’s Jeep. The warehouse door was locked, so he unlocked it, went inside, and relocked the door behind him.
Only Harley and Duke had a key to the place. It had been paid for a long time ago, and there had just never been any reason to sell it. The warehouse was vacant now, but years ago his and Duke’s father had used it to bring in marijuana. The pot would be stored there after coming in on boats, then it would be loaded on trucks and sent to another warehouse in Jersey. Decades before that, according to the stories Harley had heard, the building was used to store illegal rum during Prohibition.
There was a single light coming from the office window that looked down over the rest of the warehouse from the mezzanine. Harley mounted the steps, stomping hard to let his brother know he was coming.
The office door swung open, spilling light down onto the steps. Duke’s silhouette filled the door frame, seeming larger than possible. He wore only a pair of shorts and running shoes, and his body glistened with sweat.
“What are you doing here, Harley,” Duke asked.
Harley lifted a take-out box of chicken. “Thought you’d be hungry. How’s our guest doing?”
Duke stepped back, and Harley entered the office. One side looked like a gym, with barbells, a bench press, and several dumbbells and other workout equipment strewn about. A cable stretched across two pulleys attached to the exposed beams. One end was rigged to the end of a very serious-looking steel bollard resting on the floor. The other end was attached to the middle of a steel pipe, hanging close to the ceiling. The equipment hadn’t been there the last time Harley had entered the building. But that was six months earlier.
In one corner was a double bed with a dirty, unmade mattress. Harley recognized Tammy by her hair. She was lying prone on the bed, her face turned toward the wall. She wore next to nothing, just as she had in the cooler. Her arms were tied behind her back, forearms lashed together in a very uncomfortable-looking way with what looked like a belt or strap. At first, Harley didn’t think she was alive; she wasn’t moving. Then he saw her shoulders quake and could hear her sobbing through a gag.
“What have you two been doing?” Harley asked, as he approached the woman on the bed.
Duke closed the door. “I forgot she was even here. I been working the upper body and got into a zone.”
Harley placed the box of chicken on the edge of the bed and took his Buck knife from his pocket, flipping it open in a single movement. He cut through the thin nylon cords that bound Tammy’s feet. The woman flinched at his touch and gasped. Putting the knife back in his pocket, Harley quickly unbuckled the belt, releasing her arms. He slowly rolled her onto her side, marveling at the detail in the hundreds of tiny tattoos on her back, shoulders, sides, and belly.
Tiny parrots, each exquisitely detailed and different in shape and color, seemed to fly out of her hair, spreading out across her shoulders and upper back. They parted at the top of her shoulders, some disappearing around and under her arm in front, while others dove down her back, joining and flying down her sides. Just below her ribcage, the parrots turned into fish. Schools of brightly-colored fish, of all shapes and sizes, each as detailed as the birds. The schools circled and launched themselves over the tops of her hips. The little fish got closer together and more densely packed across her flat lower belly, giving the illusion of increased speed before swirling together and diving into her panties.
Studying the intricate design, Harley didn’t see Tammy’s eyes darting around the room. He wasn’t ready when she lunged to get past him, cracking him in the side of the head with her elbow. He saw stars for a second, but instinctively reached out to grab her. He missed.
Tammy dashed to the door, but Duke was there first. He grabbed her around the waist. Moving around behind her and bringing his arms up under hers, he locked his fingers behind her head. His shoulders were easily twice the width of Tammy’s, so the full nelson essentially just lifted her arms straight up as he pushed her head down. Though it wasn’t immediately painful, Duke was more than capable of applying more pressure and snapping her spine. She struggled for a moment and he pulled up and back, pressing his groin against her and lifting her feet off the ground.
“Let her go, Duke,” Harley said, shaking the cobwebs out of his head and rising from the bed.
Duke looked at his older brother, rage building to a boil, deep inside his brain as the heat built in his groin. “She’ll try to run again,” he said, in a half-snarl.
“I said let her go, Marion!”
“Don’t call me that, Harley,” Duke warned.
Harley stopped a few feet in front of the now-docile woman. He knew calling his brother by his given name would distract him from anything and everything else. He also knew that only he could defuse it with a simple apology, however insincere.
“I’m sorry, Duke,” Harley said, slapping his palm to his forehead. “I keep forgetting. You can let her go, man. Look, she’s not trying to run. She’s not fighting.”
The bulging tricep muscles holding Tammy’s head down, relaxed a little and Duke lowered her feet to the floor, her ass and spine rubbing against him. The smoldering rage in his brain slowly subsided, but her position against his body was like a bellows to the fire he felt lower.
Releasing his hold, Duke grabbed Tammy’s upper arms, holding her in place in front of him. Harley looked into her pleading eyes, puffy and red from fear and crying. Like a snake, his hand shot out and grabbed her by the hair on the side of her head.
Yanking her forward and off balance, he forced her down on her hands and knees, smacking the side of her face to the rough floorboards so hard the sound rang through the warehouse below with a hollow thud.
“Your old man stole from me, bitch!” Harley yelled, bashing her face against the rough-hewn floor again. “And you wanna try to fix that by hittin’ me?” He yanked her up to her knees. “Get on your feet!” he snarled, as he hauled her up by the hair.
Tammy’s arms flailed, grabbing at Harley’s wrists, scratching long streaks into his forearms as she screamed in pain behind the gag. All the air whooshed from her lungs with a guttural moan as Harley brought his left fist up into the tender spot under her ribs. When she doubled over, he brought his knee up, connecting with the side of her head and sending her sprawling onto the floor.
Harley looked around. Duke’s bench was old and well-worn. One corner of the padding had come loose and Duke had used duct tape to mend it. The roll lay beneath the bench.
“Drag her over here,” Harley said, picking up the tape and crossing the room to Duke’s makeshift lat bar.
Duke picked Tammy up under her arms and dragged her to where Harley stood.
“What’s that thing weigh?” Harley asked, pointing at the dock bollard.
“I don’t know,” Duke replied. “A little less than me, I guess.”
“Good. Pull that bar down.”
When Duke pulled it down, Harley told him to push it all the way to the floor and hold it. It took nearly all the big man’s strength, but he finally held it to the floor.
Harley quickly laid Tammy’s arms across the pipe and secured her wrists to the bar with duct tape. “Okay, let it up slow.”
Duke eased up on the bar and let the weight drag Tammy’s inert body up to a sitting position, then on up until her feet just barely touched the floor, before the bollard settled onto it, too.
Harley stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Tammy hung limp from the bar, her chin on her chest and the heels of her bare feet just off the floor. “Yeah, that’ll hold her.”
Harley started out the door. “I need you to go up to Marathon tomorrow and find that boat.”
“What do ya want me to do with her?” Duke asked.
“That bitch?” Harley shouted, stepping back into the office, pointing at Tammy, hanging helpless by her wrists. He shrugged. “I don’t give a shit. Let her starve if ya want; fuck her.”
Duke look
ed at the sheer work of art hanging from his workout equipment as his brother stormed out the door. “Whatever you say, Harley.”
A sound in the middle of the night woke me. Everyone had retired to their quarters a couple of hours after sunset. We usually rose with the sun, and it looked like it might be a long day. I heard the sound again, a light thud.
I rolled out of bed and opened the drawer to my nightstand. My nine-millimeter Sig Sauer lay right on top of its case in the drawer. There was no need to check if there was a magazine in it, or if there was a round in the chamber. Pap always told me that an unloaded gun was a hammer, and the guy that brought a hammer to a gunfight wasn’t going to fare well.
Fully alert, I padded barefoot to the bedroom door, the moonlight through the window guiding my way. When I reached the door, I paused and listened. There was a slight rustling sound and I yanked the door open, my Sig leading the way into the living room.
Nothing. No bogey-man hiding in the shadows, no terrorists bent on mindless jihad, no crazed junkie lying in wait. Just Finn, lying in the corner and looking toward my fly-tying bench. I heard another sound and turned, my Sig leading the way again. The sound had come from the open floor hatch, next to my bench.
Was Devon up and moving around at this hour? I wondered.
Taking no chances, I crouched and moved closer to the hatch, angling to see down to the middle catwalk. A low light illuminated the dock area below, and I knew it was the single bare twelve-volt bulb in the middle of the back wall.
Below, I saw Devon turn at the end of the dock, walking back toward the ladder. She was barefoot, wearing cut-offs and a blue tee-shirt.
“You trying to get yourself killed?”
Startled, Devon looked up, her right hand going instinctively to her hip. Her holster wasn’t there. I raised my weapon, and she lifted a hand to her mouth, snickering.
“This isn’t funny!” I hissed, not wanting to wake the whole island. “I could have shot you.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, grinning. “I kept wondering if you were a boxers or briefs kinda guy. Guess I don’t have to wonder anymore.”
Realizing I was wearing only my skivvies, I stepped back out of her sight a little in embarrassment, placing my Sig on the bench. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be once the next decision is made.”
“What decision is that?” I asked.
Devon took a step closer to the ladder, still smiling. I had to step closer to the hatch to look down and see her. She craned her neck upward, and the sparkle of mischief was unmistakable in those brown eyes. “Whether I’m coming up there, or you’re coming down here.”
I grinned back at her and extended a hand. “You still haven’t seen the rest of my house.”
“No,” she said, and started slowly up the ladder. “I haven’t.”
She stepped off the ladder and into my arms.
When my eyes opened, I thought I’d dreamed the whole thing. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it was starting to get light outside and it spilled in through the open window, along with a cool breeze. The bed was disheveled and empty. Sitting up, I looked around.
No, I don’t think you were dreaming, McDermitt, I thought, picking up a pale blue tee-shirt from the floor, where it had been pushed nearly under the bed with my skivvies. The shirt had a picture of a bottle on the front and next to it were four lines: One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor. I put it to my face. No perfume, just a good, clean scent, with a touch of lavender, maybe. I’m not big on identifying smells, but I know what smells good to me.
Putting on my skivvies, I went to the open bedroom doorway. Finn hadn’t moved from his spot in the corner, but his head was up, ears alert. Devon had her back to me, looking at the books in my bookcase. Her dark blond hair cascaded over tan shoulders. She was wearing only the cutoffs.
“Looking for something?” I asked, walking toward her.
She spun quickly, her breasts partly hidden by the wild blond tresses, hanging over her shoulders. “This is you,” she said, pointing to a framed picture on the top shelf. “With the president?”
“Yeah,” I replied, stopping in front of her. My eyes roved all over her body and she didn’t shy away in the least.
“Who’s the redhead?”
I glanced at the picture. “Doctor Jackie Burdick,” I replied, stepping just a little closer, well within her personal space. “A Navy doc who stitched me up a few years ago.”
“Your body language in the photo tells me there was more intimacy between you than that,” Devon whispered as I drew her into my arms.
“Ancient history,” I whispered, as my lips found her neck.
“Do we have time?” she asked, moaning softly into my shoulder and pressing her body hard against mine.
“No, not really,” I whispered, taking her shoulders and moving her out to arm’s length. I let my eyes take in all of her again.
“Maybe later?” she asked, with a seductive pout and sparkling eyes.
“Oh, definitely later,” I replied. “I woke up and thought I’d dreamed last night. That was you, wasn’t it? With the trapeze, black angel’s wings, and Mardi Gras mask?”
Devon slugged my shoulder, causing me to wince slightly.
“Beware what you ask for, Jesse,” she said, snatching her tee-shirt from my hand. “When this is over, I’m going to turn you inside out and leave you begging for mercy.”
My eyes followed her as she walked across the deck toward the floor hatch, hips swaying seductively. “Promises, promises.”
“I’m going down there to get dressed,” she said, pulling the shirt over her head and flipping her hair out of it. “Do you have food in this house? I’m starved.”
“Breakfast is outside, just after sunrise,” I said, heading toward my bedroom as she climbed down. I was suddenly quite happy with Carl’s idea for the trap-door.
I dressed quickly in jeans and a long-sleeved button-down work shirt. Since we’d showered together just a couple of hours before, I was out the door and ready for the day in minutes.
We had a hearty breakfast of omelets with cheese, green peppers from the garden, and bite-sized chunks of lobster tail left over from last night. Talk around the tables was mostly subdued.
The sound of an approaching outboard got my attention. “You expecting someone else?” Charlie asked.
“Deuce said he’d be out this morning, before we leave,” I replied, rising from the table. “Sounds like Rusty’s old outboard coming through the cuts to the south.”
Kim and Devon followed me to the south pier, where Rusty’s old skiff was turning into my channel. Deuce stood in the bow, with Julie at the helm—which explained why they were coming up from the south. Julie knows the back country better than anyone, even me.
Another man was sitting next to her. He sat rigidly straight, head up, steely eyes missing nothing. His crewcut was sprinkled with gray and his square jaw unshaven, but only for a day or two.
“Who’s that with Deuce and Julie?” Kim asked.
“That’d be Colonel Travis Stockwell,” Tony answered, as he came down the steps with Andrew and Paul. “Wonder what he’s doing here?”
Catching the line that Deuce tossed from the bow, I tied it off to a cleat, while Tony did the same with the stern line.
“How’ve you been, Jesse?” Stockwell asked, as Julie shut off the engine.
“As well as can be expected, Colonel. What are you doing here?”
Travis stood and looked down at the dock, before looking up with a question in his eyes. I nodded and he stepped up onto the pier in front of me, our eyes locked on one another’s.
“My time is short, too,” he said. “I’m here to beg for my old job.”
“Position’s been filled,” I said. “I do have an opening for a sea-faring galley wench, if you know anyone looking for a job.”
Stockwell grinned. “I just might have someone in mind. She even has her own boat. Last I heard, she was on her way here.
In the meantime, Deuce tells me he needs some specialized equipment.”
Everyone on the pier, except Kim and Devon, knew we were talking about Charity Styles. Charity had been selected to do wet work for the CIA, and had been out sailing the Caribbean for over a year now. Stockwell was her handler, and I didn’t like the idea much. The woman had psychological issues and was going to wind up getting killed. Hearing that she was on her way here meant only one thing: the plug had been pulled on any further missions for her.
I nodded my understanding. “What kind of equipment?”
“Just about anything you want,” Travis replied. “Bargain basement prices, too. Except weapons. We both know you have more than enough of those to go around.”
“You mean like the electronics we were already planning to use?” I asked, suspiciously.
“We’ll just call this a trial. Play with the stuff and see if it’s something you’ll be interested in.”
I grinned at my former first mate. “We can talk price once Devon and I get back.”
“Devon?” he asked and turned to look at her. “Detective Evans, I presume.”
She must have picked up on my less-than-warm attitude. “And you are?” she asked in an even tone, shaking his hand.
“Travis,” he replied. “Formerly Associate Director Stockwell with Homeland Security, and Colonel Stockwell, US Army before that.”
“We’re just about to get underway, Colonel,” I said. “You planning to stay a while?”
“Actually, I thought I might go with you. Deuce explained what’s going on when he picked me up early this morning. Don’t you think a star of Detective Evans’ caliber would have two bodyguards?”
“This is her sting,” I said. “If it’s okay with her, it’s fine by me.”
“Can I speak to you privately?” Devon asked me.
I followed her up the steps and opened the door. Inside, she turned to me and asked, “Who is this guy? I get the impression you’re not exactly friends?”
Fallen Hero: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 10) Page 25