Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (best novels to read for beginners txt) 📕

Stranded on Anguilla.

No passport and no cash.

Damn.

I watched as a beautiful forty-plus-foot speedboat cruised slowly into the bay. The setting sun cast pink, purple, and orange hues over the clouds marching slowly across the sky like costumed children in a school play. The same bartender I’d seen when I first arrived appeared at my shoulder.

“That’s your ride.” She pointed her chin toward the speedboat, then winked at me. “Bankie says to watch your ass.”

Best advice I’d had all week.

Twilight faded fast, but the dull glow of St. Barths was a magnetic beacon on the horizon. Two men crewed the speedboat, neither of whom had spoken a word to me. The boat’s black hull blended into the dark water, but it was the electronic signature I was most worried about. I had no idea how closely these waters were monitored.

I sat in the back on a padded bench seat and watched the bow spray spatter across the blackness of night like Jackson Pollock tossing paint on a dark canvas. Twin inboards vibrated, rattling my teeth. Based on our progress so far, the trip wouldn’t take more than an hour, but the swells here were six-foot-plus rollers and had the captain, a dreadlocked man in his early thirties, throttling back. I appreciated his deft handling, preferring not to be slammed silly.

Stars began to shine above us, and the North Star and Big Dipper calmed my racing heart. Immobile and ever-present, if often hidden by clouds or city lights, they’d guided sailors for centuries. A shooting star cut a quick gash in the Milky Way that healed instantly. I turned my eyes to the horizon, scanning for running lights. I’d been reduced to human cargo, a risk to these men with no upside and no profit. Staci had comped my dinner, so I still had my $82, but that wouldn’t cover a fraction of the fuel this water rocket had drunk on the crossing.

I certainly owed someone something—

Crap! I suddenly remembered my dinner tonight with Caterina Moreau. With no way to contact her, she’d be sitting at la Langouste right now, alone, embarrassed, and angry.

Wonderful.

But standing her up was the least of my problems. Did Jack think I’d just disappear? His exposing me to the FBI left me with nothing to lose by going on full offense. If he thought he’d scare me away, he must have forgotten I didn’t scare easily.

Black silhouettes of small uninhabited islands occasionally rose up out of the water. We’d passed a dozen at least. Were these the ones Bankie and Jerry had prospected?

Everything that had happened since Truck and I arrived on St. Barths played through my mind like a series of bad dreams. There was no end in sight, not until the treasure hunters either found what they were after or gave up. What worried me was the damage they’d inflict between then and now.

A spotlight suddenly panned over the water ahead of us, splashed across our bow. A loud horn sounded.

Shit!

I jumped up and nearly flew overboard as we turned hard to port and straight into a wave. I grabbed the back of the captain’s chair—the horn sounded again!

“Police?” My voice was shrill over the roar of the engines.

He cut a glance back at me, his eyes sharp. I could now make out the silhouette of the ship in front of us. It was huge.

“Ferry,” the captain said.

It took several deep breaths to slow my pulse. I wanted them to drop me off in Colombier, where I could hike back to Flamands and maybe see if Caterina was still at la Langouste, but wasn’t about to make any suggestions. These men knew what they were doing. And Caterina wouldn’t wait long.

We pulled straight into Gustavia harbor and up to the sea wall near Master Ski Pilou. The second my feet hit the concrete, the boat was in reverse and headed back out to sea.

“Thanks, fellas,” I said in a whisper.

I made my way up the hill, past the dark office of the Maritime historian, and up to the hospital. I found Truck in a wheelchair, on a telephone, looking pissed off.

“Yeah, hold on, man. Reilly just posted.” He held a hand over the mouthpiece of the room phone. “Hell you been, man? I’m ready to get outta here, but these Frenchies won’t let me leave until they got some cash or insurance—which I ain’t got.”

“Me neither—”

“… the hell you doing, Reilly?” I heard Truck’s brother, Bruiser, shout through the phone.

“Hang up and let me make a call.”

Ten minutes later, after a sanitized update, Lou agreed to take care of the hospital bill, send a replacement credit card, and wire-transfer funds to the BNP branch in Gustavia.

It had taken all my rusty efforts at diplomacy to keep things light with Lou. Maybe he was playing me, but without his help we’d be broke, stranded, and up to our necks in vipers. Once I had the nurse show me how to transfer Lou to the finance office, I turned my attention to Truck.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“You look worse.”

It was true. His right arm was in a sling, one of his eyes had a puffy half-moon bruise around the lid, and his stomach was wrapped with tape to hold the cracked rib in place. During the taxi ride back toward Lorient, I filled him in on everything he’d missed, including my little session of shock therapy with Gunner.

“Damn, cuz. All ‘cause you wanted to see inside your old plane?”

I couldn’t tell him about the package Jack sent to Booth. I couldn’t tell anyone about that.

“These guys are focused and furious. They’re ready to stomp anyone who gets in their way.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

I told the driver to make a quick stop at the airport, which was closed since it was midnight. I cajoled my way through security at the private aviation terminal while Truck waited in the cab with the meter running.