The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

pool, waves crashed onto a private strip of the coast where a skiff was moored to a dock. Out beyond that, a white sixty-foot yacht bobbed in the ocean.

I'm on the wrong side of the gambling business, Carson realized.

He turned and noted the grand piano to his right. The glossy black finish glistened in the light of a Swarovski chandelier hanging in the center of the room.

Bert certainly enjoyed opulence. Well, he did.

The Puerto Rican had no idea he was about to die. If he did have a clue, Carson was certain he would have taken drastic measures. His mind momentarily drifted to the final scene of the film Scarface and the assault on the drug lord's mansion.

Carson shook off the daydream and made his way past the piano to a doorway leading into a darkened room. The only light came from the windows along the far wall and a wall to his left.

When he reached the threshold, he rapped on the door four times. "Bert? You in here?"

"In here, Baker," the Puerto Rican said. "Come in."

Carson stepped into the study and found himself in a world Ernest Hemingway would have loved. The smell of cigar smoke hung in the air, drifting up from a thick cigar pinched between Bert's fingers. The man sat in a deep leather club chair to the right. An empty one waited next to him. A gas fireplace behind the seats flickered with yellow flames, certainly more for ambiance than the necessity for heat.

More windows filled the back wall, and dozens of bookshelves filled with tomes surrounded the fireplace. A white leather couch sat in front of the windows to the left with matching side chairs and a coffee table with an oak top and legs wrapped in wicker reeds.

"I didn't know you were such an avid reader," Carson commented coolly as he stepped deeper into the room.

"I enjoy a bit of good fiction now and then," Bert confessed. "Though most of these are collectibles, rare first editions."

His eyes wandered to the bag on Carson's shoulder. "That's a lot of cash to carry around. Weren’t you worried about someone trying to steal it?"

Carson offered a snort. "Not at all." He heard his deep voice echo throughout the room.

"I know I would."

"You aren't me."

Bert took a puff of the cigar and blew smoke out of his lips. Tight rings swelled and floated into the air, then dispersed after hovering for a few seconds.

"True." He looked at the cigar box. "Would you like a smoke?"

"I don't smoke," Carson said. "Thank you." He lowered the bag to his hand. "Where would you like me to put this?"

Bert twitched slightly. Over there on that couch is fine," he said, pointing to the leather sofa along the far wall.

"Suit yourself."

Carson turned to head over to the couch, his mind already setting the plan in motion. He'd altered it in the few minutes since arriving. Without any guards except for Deno in sight, Carson would shoot Bert first and let the muted gunshot and the man's screams for help call for anyone else in the mansion. They would rush through the open door without realizing they were running headlong into a trap. They'd be cut down before they realized what happened. One by one, Bert's men would die on the floor of his study and then, Bert would die too, but only after he gave up the information Carson wanted about where he kept his treasures. Although, right off the top of his head, Carson realized those first editions might fetch a handsome price. His brain darted to the mysterious German who'd bought the artifacts and treasure horde.

"Over here?" Carson asked, pointing to the white couch.

Bert rolled his eyes. "Is there another white sofa there? Yes, that one." He sounded irritated and went back to puffing on his cigar.

Carson was going to enjoy this. He hadn't killed anyone in a while. Honestly, he hadn't missed it, but now he was starting to.

He walked silently over to the couch and set down the bag. He started to unzip it, but Bert's voice stopped him.

"That's good," he said. The voice was much closer than it should have been.

Carson twisted his head and looked over his shoulder. Bert was standing halfway across the room, holding a .44 Magnum.

"What are you doing, Bert?" Carson asked with a tenuous laugh.

Bert's eyes filled with nervous tension. "Step away from the bag and put your hands up, slowly."

Carson put on his best confused-face as he gradually raised his left hand.

"Both of them," Deno said from the doorway, also brandishing a weapon. His was a gaudy, gold plated number. If Carson had to guess, he'd say it was a Desert Eagle, though it was unlike any he'd seen before. These two preferred show guns."

Carson sighed and raised his right hand into the air.

"Step away from the bag," Bert repeated.

"Fine," Carson agreed. "But I don't know what you think you're doing. I brought the money like you asked."

"Yeah, I doubt it. Move over there, toward the side door."

Carson frowned and risked a glance at the proffered door. It led to a garden, surrounded by a hedgerow that towered at least seven feet high. A birdbath outside one of the windows played host to a collection of red and yellow songbirds. Flowers of several colors lined a small yard that ran behind a concrete pool deck.

"What's your plan here, Bert?" Carson said, the serpent inside him finally revealing its true colors. "You going to kill me? If you think that, you're making a big mistake."

"No," Bert said. "I'm not going to kill you."

Two more guards stepped into the room and surrounded Carson on both sides. One removed the sidearm from his right hip. The other searched his legs and found the .38 on his ankle.

How did they know?

One of the guards unzipped the bag and found the stash of extra weapons and magazines.

He looked over at the bookie and nodded.

Bert shook his head. "You were going to kill me. Such a shame. You were