Bidwell and Stoddard slept the sleep of the wasted downstairs. Nick took his bag with him down into the cabin area and gave each of them a light chloroforming before flipping each one over and plastic-tying their wrists behind their backs. He plastic-tied the ankles next, adding one tie between ankles and wrists. Nick went up to get some air, and returned to the cabin. He found an ice bucket holding empty bottles of Champagne. He took the bottles out and poured a little ice water over each man until they groaned their way into consciousness. Nick placed a chair near the bunks and kept up his ice water treatment.
“Wha…what the hell?” Bidwell spluttered, looking around wildly. He saw Stoddard bound as he was across the narrow space between bunks. “Stoddard!”
Stoddard blinked stupidly and threw up. Nick doused him with ice water, and pulled him off the bunk to the floor. Nick sat down and picked up his stun gun. He fired off a crackling arc which had both men trying to scramble away. Stoddard twisted on the floor, looking up at Nick without recognition.
“Who? Who are you?”
“I’ll be asking the questions, Max, and we all know what happens if I don’t get answers. Why are you two supposed rivals in the gunrunning, drug, and human trafficking business here together?”
“We had to call a truce…especially with what’s surfaced lately,” Bidwell gasped out fearfully. “There were these drives -”
“I know all about the recent disclosures. You guys know a man named Frank from Washington D.C.? He used to be an underling of Senator Ambrose. Now, I hear he takes orders from you, Bidwell.”
“Oh Christ…you’re that psycho, McCarty! Frank said he had you killed. That son of a bitch sent you after us, didn’t he?”
“How about you, Max?” Nick ignored Bidwell’s question.
“Frank Richert?” Stoddard asked, his eyes now wide open.
“Yep.”
“How…how did he know we were setting him up to take the fall?” Bidwell’s voice faded in tenor along with all hope of seeing another sunrise.
“Don’t know,” Nick admitted. “He’s a sneaky one, our Frank.”
“He’ll have you killed too.” Stoddard’s voice sounded stronger. “We can protect you.”
“No thanks, Max.”
“This is all because of that Hunter bitch! The stupid slut and her dimwit husband brought all this shit down on us!” Bidwell raged, rocking back and forth on the bunk.
“This is one of your boats, Bidwell,” Nick interrupted Bidwell’s rant. “Where do you keep your cruising around money?”
“Fuck you, McCarty!”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Nick stunned Bidwell until he flopped around in boneless fashion.
“Honest to God, I don’t know where any money is, Mr. McCarty,” Stoddard whimpered, trying to scoot even further into the bunk’s base.
“Is there anyone else besides you and Jason here looking for the Hunter woman, Max?”
“We stopped looking for her when the drives were released. We met down here to…to reorganize. We needed to let our people pour enough money into the right pockets so we could recover.”
“I believe you, Max.” Nick picked up his chloroform pad. He soaked it once again and bent down toward the cringing Stoddard. “Breathe deeply Max, and go to sleep. If you fight it, I might change my mind and have two drowning victims instead of one.”
Stoddard breathed and died. Nick threw some more water on Bidwell, who cried out as Nick began slapping him awake.
“Now, you were saying about the money, Jas?”
“It’s in a safe, behind the galley cupboard!” Bidwell cried out as Nick fired off another arc near him. He quickly rattled off the combination.
Nick found nearly fifty thousand dollars and some drugs in the safe. He came back from the galley a few minutes later, his bag stuffed with money. Nick had left a couple thousand dollars and the drugs behind before closing up the safe. “That’s more like it.”
Nick cut the ties off Stoddard’s body and worked the corpse up into the empty bunk. He then cut Bidwell’s plastic ties on his ankles. Nick guided Bidwell up the steps and over to the fantail.
“I need a drowning victim. Any volunteers?”
“Oh God no!” Bidwell screamed. “Please -”
Nick threw Bidwell over the fantail and then dived into the water after him. Nick grabbed Bidwell by the hair and surfaced. He held him under the water while clinging to the boat ladder for five minutes. Nick ducked down and put Bidwell over his shoulder. He worked his way up the ladder, tossing the dead man into the boat. Nick retrieved his cutters and cut the plastic tie on Bidwell’s wrists. After shouldering the dead man once again, Nick made his way down to the berthing area and dumped Bidwell on his bunk.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Nick packed up. When he was ready to leave, he turned on just one of the galley burners without flame, and left the oven door open and flame on. He went up to the fantail and into the water, donning his fins and compensator quickly at the base of the ladder. He made it nearly halfway to The Lucky Lady when he felt the concussion from the blast. He continued surfacing every few minutes to check for the small light Gus had turned on. Gus took his bag and gear, hauling up the compensator and tank so Nick could climb aboard without the weight.
“I hope you have the skiff ready, Quarrel. I’ll change when we get to the other boat.”
“All set, James,” Gus played along.
“Well done, Quarrel. Do you have Lucky here rigged to run toward Florida?”
“Of course, James.”
“I’ll be in the skiff, Quarrel. Please hurry, won’t you?”
Gus gave Nick a push and went to set The Lucky Lady on the autopilot he had rigged up. By the time he hurried down to join Nick, the boat was picking up speed with running lights on. Nick released the mooring when Gus jumped down into the skiff.
“I hope you’re wrong about my boat, James.” Gus watched The Lucky Lady churn away.
“Keep that happy thought, Quarrel.”
Before they reached their backup boat, the two men heard muffled explosions off in the direction The Lucky Lady had been headed, lighting up the horizon.
“At least you survived, Quarrel. Good show, old man!”
* * * *
Gus quickly slipped the mooring ropes into place, holding the boat he had dubbed Second Best in his St. Petersburg berthing. Nick jumped across to the pier, comically kneeling down and kissing the wood planks.
Gus laughed. “Fuck you, Nick.”
Nick turned his head without straightening, to peer up at Gus. “Man, that trip reminded me of the old movie
Wake of the Red Witch
. Did you miss any swells on the way here, or did you accomplish your mission of hitting every single one?”
“Sailing into St. Pete from Nassau in a thirty-footer is not for the faint of heart,” Gus admitted. “Especially when you have to hug the coastline of every rock poking out into the ocean so as not to become a new satellite target. Get your lazy ass back aboard and help me with the gear. We’re going to go clean up and wash the salt out of our throats at the local pub.”
“Sounds good,” Nick agreed, re-boarding the boat. “Do we have to shower down here on the pier or do you actually have a bathroom at your place.”
“You used to be a lot less whiny before you were domesticated.” Gus put an arm around Nick’s shoulders.
“What about all those sweet little ports of call we stopped at as we rock-hopped home over the last couple weeks? You look salty, brother, a real Hemingway-esque character.”
“After the first week of touring those sweet little hellholes, I considered giving myself up. I spent six months in the Afghan mountains once with more amenities.”
“You’re getting soft. This trip toughened you up.”
“Why, thank you, Gus. That is so sweet.” Nick pushed Gus away. “Let’s get the hell off this boat. I need to start planning Frank’s demise.”
“Can I come?”
“Yes indeed, Quarrel.” Nick shifted to his James Bond persona. “You know of course, old man, your survival would again be in doubt with this upcoming sticky situation.”
“Show me the money, James, show me the money.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Homecoming
Grace and Tim sat in Frank Richert’s outer office, his secretary having seated them with the promise Mr. Richert would see them very soon. Rachel stood outside the office with Jean, waiting for Grace to summon them. Grace claimed this would be the last step in securing their release from US Marshall protection. Richert had requested the meeting after the deaths of Jason Bidwell and Max Stoddard were made public.
The burned hulk of Bidwell’s cruiser Tequila had been found by Nassau authorities. It was deemed accidental death, a burner left on causing the fire. The four corpses found aboard showed no sign of foul play. The case was closed. Another vessel in the area on the same night had made the news also. The official story had been drug runners caught in a crossfire. Nothing but unrecognizable debris had been found. Grace knew Rachel suspected the worst. Nick and Gus were dead. Now they would be at the mercy of the man she believed responsible.
“Mr. Richert will see you now,” the secretary announced, standing and opening the door for Grace and Tim.
Inside the lavishly adorned office of dark oak, leather, and pile carpeting, a middle-aged man sat behind an oaken desk with a beautiful view from the picture window behind him. He looked up with a smile and took off his reading glasses. Grace looked Richert over carefully as the man stood up. His slate gray suit was tailored impeccably to fit Richert’s paunchy five foot eight form. Grace figured the brown hair to be a rug, but a credible one.
“Marshalls Stanwick and Reinhold, thank you for coming,” the man greeted them, holding out his hand to Grace first. “I’m Frank Richert. We’ve talked a few times on the phone during this unfortunate investigation into Tanus Import/Export and their cohorts at Fletcher Exports.”
“It would have been helpful if your agency had been more forthcoming, Mr. Richert,” Grace said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Actually, I knew so little about the case, my assistants had difficulty finding anything in relation to the two firms,” Richert replied, shaking Tim’s hand before gesturing them into the seats fronting his desk. “In light of the news coming from Nassau, I thought this would be a good time to meet and clear the air.”
“In light of the news, the only reason my partner and I came in today with our clients is to assure their safety. Your agency has had many dubious dealings with both the firms under investigation.”
“My agency’s investigations into terror networks worldwide put us into contact with quite a number of suspicious entities,” Richert stated with straightforward confidence. “As an important information gathering branch of the NSA, we do have what would appear to be strange dealings in our investigations. These specious rumors of our being an assassination-for-hire mob need to be put to rest with the criminals who started them. I wished to meet with Ms. Hunter and her daughter only to congratulate them on helping take down this potential threat to national security. I want to pledge my support in integrating them back into their normal lives.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Richert. If anything does happen to my clients, I have been ordered by the Attorney General to personally take your agency apart piece by piece. Are we clear on that?”
Richert’s mask dropped for a split second, allowing a glimpse of what lay beneath his office façade. “Of course, Marshall Stanwick. I’m sure Ms. Hunter’s troubles are in the past.”
“I’ll go get Rachel,” Tim said and walked out of the office.
* * * *
Rachel jumped a little when the office door opened. Tim stepped through, smiling widely at them.
“It’s all good. Richert’s so full of bullshit, his carpet’s brown, but I think your running days are over. C’mon in for the weasel’s little ceremony and we’ll get the hell out of here.”
“Thanks Tim.” Rachel grasped Jean’s hand.
“I wish the Terminator was here,” Jean whispered.
“That makes two of us, honey,” Rachel whispered in reply, brushing away a tear, cursing the way her eyes filled upon hearing Jean’s familiar title for Nick.
* * * *
“I’m done for the day, Lisa,” Frank said, waving to his secretary on the way out. “I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Very well, Sir, you’re certainly cheerful today, Mr. Richert,” Lisa observed.
“Things are finally starting to swing our way again. See you tomorrow.” Frank went out the office door, whistling tonelessly on his way to the elevator.
On the parking garage level, Frank looked around as he left the elevator angrily. The lighting on the left side of the underground lot near where he had parked his Mercedes was out. He flicked his remote and opened, started, and turned the lights on in his vehicle. Not wishing to ruin his nearly perfect day, Frank took a deep breath and walked carefully over to his car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Richert used his remote to turn on a classical music CD. He leaned back happily, reveling in the rich sound of a piano concerto. He felt a slight sting on his neck, swatting at it with his right hand. Seconds later, darkness swept into him on a wave of despair. Light, sound, and consciousness fled, leaving only a fleeting moment of abject terror.
Frank awoke with a painful throbbing behind his eyes. A pitiful mewling cry belched out of his mouth as realization lanced through him in a heartbeat. He was naked and strapped into a chair. One dull forty watt bulb illuminated the dank cement room only slightly.
“Ni…Nick?” Frank heard chairs scraping as if pushed away from a table and two dark figures walked around him on either side.
“Hello, Frankie, long time, no see,” Nick greeted him with a pleasant lilt to his tone. “I want you to meet my old friend Gus Nason.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Richert,” Gus said formally. “You sure have caused a lot of trouble, Sir.”