Read Online Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) by Wayne Stinnett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wayne Stinnett
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Beaufort. Think you can handle that?”
Slowly bringing the Revenge down off plane, I idled into the channel where we’d blown up a boat the day before. Andrew was standing at the forward rail of the bridge, in front of the forward bench seat, and Tony and Art were on either side of the foredeck, windbreakers hiding the machine pistols they carried. Though the lightweight jackets might look conspicuous in June in the tropics, we’d agreed that it was less so than carrying weapons in the open.
“An yuh gwon be heah in half a hour?” Claude asked.
“I’m here now,” I replied, shifting to neutral. His question told me that he didn’t have anyone watching the marina approach.
“Yuh a fool, McDermitt. Whut stop I and I from jes coming dere an taking yuh money?”
“One, you know our firepower and you’ll sure as shit die trying something that stupid. And two, the hundred grand is just a down payment.”
“An di rest of di payment?”
This was almost too easy. “Another hundred thousand after you make the call. If you make it believable.”
I heard nothing for a moment. Andrew went down and watched from the starboard-side deck as Tony and Art tied us up at the dock.
“Tree hunder,” Claude said.
“Deal. Half when we meet as a good faith deposit and the other half if you make him believe you. Then your part in this is done and you can bury your dead.”
“Left dem mons to di shahks,” Claude said heartlessly. “I be dere in twenny minutes, mon.”
The line went dead. Climbing quickly down to the cockpit, I told Andrew to keep a sharp eye out and went into the cockpit. Opening the briefcase on the couch, I took out thirty of the bundles of hundreds and split them between two empty reel cases. I find fly rod cases and reel cases very unnoticeable in most of the places I travel.
Back on deck, Andrew and I stepped up onto the dock with Tony and Art. “Tony, you go ahead of us. Find a spot on the corner of the deck with a good view. We’ll be along in five minutes and take a table in the center.”
“Roger that,” Tony said, then turned and walked casually toward the restaurant, his MP5K hanging from a sling under his arm completely hidden by the oversized Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill zip-up windbreaker he was wearing.
With Andrew and Art, I walked around toward the front of the Marina, entering the restaurant from inside the main clubhouse. A young island woman stood at a podium and smiled brightly as we approached.
“Yuh heah fa lunch, Cap’n?”
“Yeah,” I replied with as disarming a smile as I could muster. “We’ll need a big table. We’re meeting friends.”
“How many in yuh pahtee?”
“Seven,” I replied.
The young woman picked up the appropriate number of menus and said, “Dis way, Cap’n. It not ver busy right now. Yuh want a table inside, or outside wit a view of di marina?”
“We’ve been on the water for two days,” I replied. “How about a table in the middle of the deck outside?”
She led the way out to the deck, weaving between the many tables toward a large one in the center. Tony sat at a table by the rail, with his back to the wall of what I guessed to be the kitchen area. There were only three other people on the deck, obvious tourists seated together near the steps down to the dock area.
Once we were seated, a waiter came over and took our drink orders, leaving a tray of glasses and two large pitchers of water. Before he left, I told him to just bring fish sandwiches and chips for the three of us and he hurried off.
“We’re ready to record,” I heard Deuce say over the tiny earwig receiver I was wearing. “Just say the word and we’ll start.”
Each of us had one, but without the bone mics attached. Andrew had a single powerful mic, disguised as a fishing lure and clipped to an old Gaspar’s Revenge Charter Service hat. It was connected wirelessly to my laptop on the boat, beaming a signal to a satellite directly above us.
Claude was early, and
Slowly bringing the Revenge down off plane, I idled into the channel where we’d blown up a boat the day before. Andrew was standing at the forward rail of the bridge, in front of the forward bench seat, and Tony and Art were on either side of the foredeck, windbreakers hiding the machine pistols they carried. Though the lightweight jackets might look conspicuous in June in the tropics, we’d agreed that it was less so than carrying weapons in the open.
“An yuh gwon be heah in half a hour?” Claude asked.
“I’m here now,” I replied, shifting to neutral. His question told me that he didn’t have anyone watching the marina approach.
“Yuh a fool, McDermitt. Whut stop I and I from jes coming dere an taking yuh money?”
“One, you know our firepower and you’ll sure as shit die trying something that stupid. And two, the hundred grand is just a down payment.”
“An di rest of di payment?”
This was almost too easy. “Another hundred thousand after you make the call. If you make it believable.”
I heard nothing for a moment. Andrew went down and watched from the starboard-side deck as Tony and Art tied us up at the dock.
“Tree hunder,” Claude said.
“Deal. Half when we meet as a good faith deposit and the other half if you make him believe you. Then your part in this is done and you can bury your dead.”
“Left dem mons to di shahks,” Claude said heartlessly. “I be dere in twenny minutes, mon.”
The line went dead. Climbing quickly down to the cockpit, I told Andrew to keep a sharp eye out and went into the cockpit. Opening the briefcase on the couch, I took out thirty of the bundles of hundreds and split them between two empty reel cases. I find fly rod cases and reel cases very unnoticeable in most of the places I travel.
Back on deck, Andrew and I stepped up onto the dock with Tony and Art. “Tony, you go ahead of us. Find a spot on the corner of the deck with a good view. We’ll be along in five minutes and take a table in the center.”
“Roger that,” Tony said, then turned and walked casually toward the restaurant, his MP5K hanging from a sling under his arm completely hidden by the oversized Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill zip-up windbreaker he was wearing.
With Andrew and Art, I walked around toward the front of the Marina, entering the restaurant from inside the main clubhouse. A young island woman stood at a podium and smiled brightly as we approached.
“Yuh heah fa lunch, Cap’n?”
“Yeah,” I replied with as disarming a smile as I could muster. “We’ll need a big table. We’re meeting friends.”
“How many in yuh pahtee?”
“Seven,” I replied.
The young woman picked up the appropriate number of menus and said, “Dis way, Cap’n. It not ver busy right now. Yuh want a table inside, or outside wit a view of di marina?”
“We’ve been on the water for two days,” I replied. “How about a table in the middle of the deck outside?”
She led the way out to the deck, weaving between the many tables toward a large one in the center. Tony sat at a table by the rail, with his back to the wall of what I guessed to be the kitchen area. There were only three other people on the deck, obvious tourists seated together near the steps down to the dock area.
Once we were seated, a waiter came over and took our drink orders, leaving a tray of glasses and two large pitchers of water. Before he left, I told him to just bring fish sandwiches and chips for the three of us and he hurried off.
“We’re ready to record,” I heard Deuce say over the tiny earwig receiver I was wearing. “Just say the word and we’ll start.”
Each of us had one, but without the bone mics attached. Andrew had a single powerful mic, disguised as a fishing lure and clipped to an old Gaspar’s Revenge Charter Service hat. It was connected wirelessly to my laptop on the boat, beaming a signal to a satellite directly above us.
Claude was early, and
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