Pleasure Cruise Shot To Hell (The Bullet-Riddled Yacht Book 1) Page 11

  I pictured Sloane cracking the whip. For once, I was the beneficiary.

  Still, it was almost forty minutes later before Rosella returned with money in tidy stacks on top of a rolling cart. Two things I hadn’t expected—it was a big pile of money and it was Reais, not dollars.

  She must have read the concern on my face. “We can get you something to put this in.”

  She probably meant a paper bag. But it got me thinking. I didn’t want a brief case or a gym bag. “Any idea where I could purchase a money belt?”

  Rosella didn’t even have to think about it. “I know a store where they sell them. I can send a runner for one, if you like.”

  I thanked her profusely, was still thanking her, an hour later, when we left the bank. The money belt had been a good idea. On me, it looked like a roll of flab. Although, maybe not so much. Something else I’d noticed in the bathroom—I’d dropped a good fifteen pounds on the Jailhouse Diet. It was a leaner, meaner Will Taggert who’d emerged from the pokey.

  Chapter 22

  I didn’t need that money belt long. Twenty-four hours later, I’d paid for food, clothes, lodging, and the big bite—the boat rental. Ollie and Nestor found a Roughwater Pilothouse Double Cabin, circa 1984—the Wanderer—that had been put to use as a fishing boat. She was 41 feet of fish stink and had a shabby air about her, but she boasted a salon, galley area, two heads, a master cabin with multiple bunks, and was powered by a 315-horsepower Cummins diesel. Nestor summed her up. “Inconspicuous and fast.”

  Since she was our best option and there wasn’t the luxury of time to negotiate, I threw money at her owner. Deal done, we took on gas and supplies and quickly got underway. A stiff wind was blowing in dark clouds as we left the harbor. Anxious to be underway, I ignored the weather, concentrating on the crucial decision ahead of us—had the Venetian gone north or south?

  Ollie and Nestor deferred to me.

  Su didn’t. “We go north.”

  Her decisiveness surprised me, but I had no reason to think south might be any better. “North it is.”

  Ollie nodded, his gaze shifting to the channel buoys that marked the lee side of the harbor. He tiptoed the Wanderer along until we cleared the last buoy before pushing the throttle down. Immediately, the throb of the engine increased and now that we were in the open sea, the Wanderer rode up and down wind-whipped waves. Unsteady on my feet, I grabbed for something to hold on to.

  Ollie saw me. “It’s going to get worse. I checked the weather before we left port and there’s a front passing by; we’re going to have storms for the next 48.”

  Just shoot me now. “This boat can handle weather, right?”

  “Yeah, it’ll be a bumpy ride, though” he said as a wave made me reach for a new handhold.

  Nestor, bending over the radar screen, widened his stance for stability. “Take her out to the two mile marker, Ollie. This radar’s decent. From there, I should be able to see what’s anchored off shore and what’s moving in the lanes.”

  I took advantage of a momentary lull to look over his shoulder. “How will you know the Venetian?”

  “Size. Speed. Gut.”

  “Gut?”

  “Call it a feel for where she might be. She’s got a seven-day head start, but with her issues, we should catch her in half that time.” He turned to face me. “Don’t worry about finding her, worry about what’s going to happen when we do.”

  “Yeah, those guys were paramilitary,” Ollie said, “they’re not going to give her up easily.”

  They were asking if I had a plan, but it all depended on the Venetian’s situation when we found her. Best-case scenario, they’d off-loaded the cocaine and abandoned her. Worst case, she’d be surrounded by an armed convoy. “Let’s get eyes on her, see what we’re up against,” I shouted over the sheets of rain pelting the windshield and reverberating off the top of the enclosed pilothouse.

  “We’ll be finding out pretty quick if she leaks,” Ollie said, scanning the roof seams.

  Nestor gave him a sidelong glance that read knucklehead. “Bilge is what we’ve got to worry about.”

  The Wanderer slid down the side of a good size wave and I felt the first twinge of nausea. “Should we be heading back to Salvador?”

  Nestor harrumphed.

  Ollie was worse. “You’re the boss, Will. If you say turn around, that’s what we’ll do.”

  No plan. No guts. Fine leader I was. “Keep going,” I said and left the pilothouse. My stomach had gone from qualmish to queasy to quarrelsome, and I didn’t want them to have the satisfaction of seeing me toss my cookies.

  I found a bucket stowed with the fishing gear, emptied it, took it to the main cabin, and sat on the floor with my head between my knees. It didn’t help. My stomach did a final loop-de-loop and part of its contents landed in the bucket.

  Mid-retch, the new sat phone started ringing from the pocket of my cargo shorts. Ban Sloane wanting a progress report, no doubt. Head in the bucket, I let it ring.

  The ringing and the retching stopped in unison. I got shakily to my feet, made my way to the galley to splash some water on my face. On the way, my stomach let me know it was gearing up for another session.

  Su saw me coming. “You look—” Her gaze darted to the bucket. “Out—out of my galley. Mess enough in here without you throwing-up.”

  I slunk back to the main cabin, where I spent the better part of the next two days, hugging my bucket.

  As the storm passed us, the wind dropped, and the seas leveled out. My stomach, long purged of all food, calmed too. Slumped on the floor, I fell into a fitful sleep. When I woke, I still felt like crap, but good enough to get back in the hunt.

  “He is among the living,” Nestor teased when I made my appearance on the bridge.

  I gave each of them a hard look. “You tried to kill me.”

  Ollie’s face reddened. “The weather report underestimated the strength of the storm, Will. If we’d known, we’d never—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I cut off his excuses. “Who won the pool on how many times I puked?” I said it jokingly, but furtive eye movement between the two of them told me I’d hit truth. “You did bet.”

  Ollie looked mortified. “No money,” he confessed guiltily. “We only did it to pass the time.”

  Nestor glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I had the over,” he said wryly, “I was sure I’d win.”

  If I’d felt better, I wouldn’t have minded some fun at my expense. As it was, my stomach was marginal, my patience thin. “What have we got?” I demanded brusquely.

  The smirk left Nestor’s face. “We’re here,” he said, pointing out our blip on the radar. His finger drew a line an inch or so above our blip. “After there, we could be coming up on the Venetian.”

  There was a large blip past the line he’d drawn. “What about that?” I asked, indicating it with a nod of my head.

  “That’s where we’re headed—to get a look,” Ollie piped up. “Might be her, might not. It’s early, yet. Two others we didn’t check—”

  “Didn’t check? Why not?”

  “Too close to Salvador. She’d have gone farther than that,” Nestor said.

  “You don’t know that for sure. What if—”

  “Will, we can’t worry about that now,” Ollie pleaded, trying to smooth things over, “we’ve got to concentrate on what’s in front of us.”

  I gave each of them a look of pure displeasure. “Call me when we get within sight of that ship.” Seething, I left the pilothouse and stormed into the galley. I put bread in the toaster oven, ate dry toast, while I stewed over the two boats we’d neglected to look at.

  The sat phone started ringing. I put my head back and groaned. He’d called repeatedly during my love affair with the bucket. Having ignored him, now I was in for trouble.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “What is wrong with you?” He was in full huffy mode. “You know I expect daily updates. Why haven’t you called? And don’t give m
e some lame excuse.”

  “I’m on a little boat, getting tossed about by some big waves, and I’ve been puking my guts out.”

  “You seem to be okay, now.” He was really getting wound-up. “Totally unacc—”

  Nestor was trying to get my attention.

  “Sorry, gotta go.”

  “What? Wait—”

  Nestor grinned. “We may have spotted her.”

  Chapter 23

  On the radar the boat was the right size and making Venetian speed. I had hopes until we got close enough that I could get a look at her through the binoculars. Not the

  Venetian. Neither were the next three. With each disappointment, I grew more discouraged. Six long days had passed since we left Salvador. I worried the Venetian had gone south down the coast to Rio. Or, if she had gone north, that she was one of the boats Ollie and Nestor had elected to pass by. I wasn’t the only one concerned. Their nonchalance had disappeared. Ollie stared endlessly and wordlessly out the window. Nestor swore and kicked things. Only Su was upbeat. Her cheery chatter of any minute we’ll see the Venetian seemed to make Ollie and Nestor gloomier, but it helped keep me from throwing myself into the drink.

  At noontime on day seven, Su brought a plate of sandwiches to the pilothouse. It was a welcome diversion. We ate and made small talk about comfort food. Ollie, who hadn’t said a word all morning, was suddenly loquacious about—of all things—mashed potatoes. Whenever he could, he ate them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. His divorce wasn’t because he was away for such long periods of time; it was because his wife couldn’t stand watching him gorge himself on mashed spuds. His sordid revelations sucked us in and we almost missed it.

  Almost.

  Nestor caught it out of the corner of his eye. His head jerked around, eyes wide. Spuds were forgotten. Our gazes followed his. We all wanted to know what he’d seen. To me, it was better than a five-course, gourmet dinner.

  A new blip had appeared on the radar.

  We gathered around the green glow of the radar screen, staring at it. The blip appeared stationary on the shoreline.

  “What’s there? Why would the Venetian be there?” I wanted to know.

  Ollie opened a folded paper map and spread it out on the dashboard. His gaze darted back and forth between the radar and the map, probably comparing coastlines. “We’re about ten miles north of Aracaju,” he said referencing one of northern Brazil’s larger cities. On the map, his finger traced the coastline south before stopping. “Could be close to Laranjeiras.”

  “What?”

  “Laranjeiras.” Su pronounced it slowly for me. “Dates back to the 1600’s. Town’s known for religious and historical sites.”

  Ollie peered at the screen intently. “She lies south of town. What I can’t tell is if she’s anchored—”

  “Or she’s been run aground,” Nestor finished

  My spirits dropped. Old boat. Wood hull. If she’d been run aground, she might be finished. “How long till we know?”

  It was every bit of the twenty minutes they estimated before I got a look at her through binoculars. Even at a distance, I could tell it was the Venetian. She looked to be anchored about a hundred yards offshore. I kept the glasses on her as we cruised closer.

  “What are you seeing?” Nestor asked. He had glasses trained on her, as well.

  “I’m not seeing any movement,” I said. “She seems to be deserted. What are you seeing?”

  “I haven’t seen any movement, either.” He pointed to the shoreline. “See that Zodiac tied to the dock? They probably use it to go back and forth. Good indication no one’s on board.”

  A path led from the dock to an impressive two-story villa. There were expansive window walls on the first floor that opened onto a large patio and infinity pool. On the second level, four window balconies overlooked the pool. The roof was red tile; the façade painted a light yellow. Probably stucco over concrete block, much the way Florida houses were built. I pegged it at 7,000 square feet.

  Nestor must have been looking at the house, too. “Some shack.”

  We were only a quarter of a mile away. Ollie glanced my way. “What do you want me to do?”

  Refocusing my binoculars on the Venetian, I double-checked to make sure I didn’t see anyone. She still looked deserted. I lowered my glasses. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We pull up alongside, you and Nestor get on board and take her back to that town we passed.”

  “Aracaju,” Ollie said.

  “Yeah. Get her there and I’ll contact the Embassy.”

  Beside me, Nestor nodded. “They’ll chase us, but Aracaju’s only ten miles south. We can make it.”

  “Why wait? Why not just call the Embassy now?” Ollie asked.

  I thought about the indifferent response I’d gotten from the Embassy the last time I’d asked for help. “They’ll take too long. Who knows what’ll happen to the Venetian by the time they arrive. Better we take her.”

  I glanced at each of them to make sure they were okay with it. I didn’t sense any resistance.

  “This tub got any bumpers?” Nestor asked Ollie.

  “Be on the side deck, I should think,” Ollie answered him. He cut our speed, looked over at me. “Ready to take the wheel?”

  We were only two hundred yards away. “Sure.” My hands tightened around the spokes.

  “Fifty feet, put her in neutral, we’ll coast up to the Venetian,” he instructed as he exited the pilothouse. Nervously, I watched the approaching boat.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  If I did this right the two hulls would come together with the softest of kisses. I eyed the distance, eased back on the throttle. I was about to put it in neutral—now only thirty-five yards from the Venetian—when a man emerged from her salon and strode to the rail to get a look at us. Same get-up as the crew who stole the Venetian. Black tee-shirt, pants, boots. Black semi-automatic pointed in the air. We got a hard scowl as his gaze swept the Wanderer.

  I turned the wheel to the right so we wouldn’t get any closer, tried to inconspicuously increase our speed. All the while whispering to myself: Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.

  Man-in-black had to realize we were up to no good. I mean, with so much ocean, why had we come so close to the Venetian?

  As I watched, a dog—looked like a German Shepard—pranced onto the fantail, joined him at the rail, and began barking.

  Forget the dog, I told myself, concentrate on the gun.

  He lowered the barrel, pointed it in our direction, and fired a burst. I closed my eyes, sure I’d be killed as bullets strafed the pilothouse. But the gun’s noisy rat tat tat tat ended and I was still breathing. I opened my eyes.

  A wisp of smoke drifted from the barrel of his rifle. He smirked as he reached down and patted the dog’s back.

  I goosed the throttle and got us the hell out of there.

  Ollie, Nestor, and Su arrived moments later, yammering at each other.

  “I had the bumper in my hand, it was that close,” Nestor groused as he came in the door.

  “You hit the deck pretty fast,” Ollie said.

  “Me? I saw you flopped down like a big Tuna.”

  Ollie’s nose went up in the air. “I did no such thing.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Nestor sneered. “Look at you. You’ve got deck slime all down your front.”

  “Stop,” I interrupted. “What did he shoot?”

  “They not see him,” Su said, eyeing them critically. “They both on the deck with their hands over their heads.” Her gaze turned to me. “He put warning shots across our bow.”

  Ollie shrugged off her criticism. “Want me to take the wheel?”

  I nodded and relinquished it. I needed to think. There had to be a way to get that guy off the Venetian.

  “What’s the plan?” Nestor wanted to know. “We going to sneak back at night, overpower him while he’s sleeping?”

  “How are you at making Molotov cocktails?” I
countered.

  Chapter 24

  Laranjeiras, despite my inability to pronounce the name, turned out to be quite scenic. The town was a hodge-podge of picturesque white-washed older buildings sited on a narrow strip of flat land between the harbor and steep hillsides.

  We docked the Wanderer at the commercial wharf, found a nearby café with outdoor tables overlooking the harbor, and despite it being 2:00 in the afternoon, asked to see the dinner menu. Our cheerful waiter brought us chips and salsa to nibble on while we looked over the menus. It was gone in like twenty seconds. To his credit, he kept the chips and salsa coming as we kept devouring them. Or at least Ollie, Nestor, and I did. Su looked on disdainfully. “Too much salt.”

  When it came time to order, we guys went for beef.

  “Bad for your cholesterol.” Su ordered steamed vegetables.

  Despite her dire warnings, such as, “You keel over from too much fatty food.” I felt full and satisfied after the meal. Meal finished, three of us lingered over coffee and Su over green tea, while I gave them their assignments. Ollie was to stay with the Wanderer. Su was to find transportation. Nestor and I would pick up the picnic supplies.

  We rendezvoused at the Wanderer an hour later.

  Nestor and I had fulfilled our assignment.

  Su, however, had come up short. “No taxis. I couldn’t find anyone who would rent a car for the evening. Best I could do was bicycles.”

  “You’re kidding?” I asked incredulously. I hadn’t ridden a bicycle since sixth grade.

  “Not kidding. Be good for you. Burn off all those calories.”

  “What about the—you know?” Nestor asked, nodding at the bottles of Tequila.

  “The bikes have baskets and I have a map,” Su said. “The bicycle man told me the best route. It’s not far.”

  Nestor wasn’t enthused. “You want me to steal us a car?”

  “No.” I said, wanting no more jail time or even the risk of it.

  He chuckled to himself. “Excuse me. You want me to borrow us a car?”