Deception Bay (A Caribbean Adventures Novel)

DECEPTION BAY

Prologue

I have to admit, being a stalker isn’t all that bad. It’s part of a game played at a level most people are either oblivious to or can’t comprehend. On one side are the players who own the money, power and politics. They’re masters at web-spinning and gridlocking others who would dare to catch them. The best players on the other side are smart and committed but constrained by rules they often face having to bend in order to win. I’m at ground level on the bending side. A front-line bender.

Much of the time I end up stalking people who never know it. Well, almost never. But I prefer to think of myself as more of a hunter. When I first spot my prey, they’re little more than people of interest. I’m hunting what they’re hiding.

Trust me, everyone’s hiding something. That doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad people. It might be something they did on the job and don’t want their boss to know about. Can’t say I haven’t done that myself. It’s legit. Maybe not ethical, but legit.

Or maybe they’ve never disclosed their first-ever sexual encounter to their current partner. I mean, that’s okay, right? Hell, most of those encounters are awkward anyway. They’re too embarrassing to share.

On the other hand, it might be something they did in their youth and never shared with their family. Take my modestly religious great grandparents. Experts at deception, they celebrated their anniversary two months earlier than the actual date on their court-issued marriage certificate. Why? Because they conceived my grandfather out of wedlock. I’m not judging; it was a different time. But you get the point—even God-fearing great grandparents might choose to deceive us.

Most deception is harmless, so who cares? Unfortunately, there are those who hide horrifying things. For unspeakable reasons. They’re the ones I’m tasked to hunt. And sometimes there are others I just stumble onto. People who don’t fit the stereotype. Those ones make my work so damn interesting, because you never see them coming.

So now you know what I do for a living. It’s an existence where relationships are few and constrained. The friends I do have are primarily colleagues. Do they even count? Anyway, they all call me by my childhood nickname, Ryder. It’s what I go by for everyone…except my mom.

Chapter 1

The killer slipped the transmitter into the left-side pocket of his black hoodie and exited through the front door, onto the creaking screened-in porch of the clapboard house. In the frigid night, the only movement he could see was the fog of his breath lit yellow by a streetlight. He turned and locked the door with the house key, as though he were its owner. Bending down, he placed the key under a clay flowerpot containing the remnants of a long-deceased plant that looked like a hunched over stickman. After removing his gloves and tucking them under his arm, he pulled out a burner phone.

[K]: Done

[W]: All 3?

[K]: Yes

[W]: Proof?

[K]: In hand

[W]: Excellent

[K]: $$$.

[W]: Proof first

He put his gloves back on, cracked the burner, pocketed it and descended the wooden steps that groaned in pain under the weighty heels of his cowboy boots. Crossing the street, he glanced back at the sad old place, its pale blue paint peeling away in apparent protest over years of homeowner neglect. ‘Its misery is about to end,’ he smirked.

Dried leaves and twigs crunched as he entered the corner park to retrieve the e-bike he’d left there fifteen minutes earlier, hidden among barren maple trees and woody caragana bushes. He rode it down over the curb and paused to place his thumb on the transmitter switch. It wouldn’t matter that he’d cleaned up the crime scene before leaving the house. That was just his standard practice. ‘It’s so much more fun to finish things up this way,’ he thought, as he rode south and depressed the switch.

The ramshackle dwelling erupted, the blast almost forcing him off the e-bike. He steadied himself, stopped and glanced back. The house was enveloped by orange flames licking out through shattered windows. The place roared in anger, as though resenting his decision to end its pain.

Restarting the e-bike he noticed another rider turn the street corner ahead and come toward him. It looked like a kid. Maybe a young teen. As she came near, she slowed and made eye contact...for too long. The killer waited until she passed before withdrawing his gun, its silencer still attached. He aimed and fired at her head. It jerked to the right, leading the rest of her body as it sprawled off the bike. The killer scanned the area. Seeing no movement, he walked over to the girl spread out on the cold pavement. She was still conscious, her body shaking, eyes stunned open.

“Bad timing, kid.”

Two quick shots to the forehead ended her. The killer walked back to his e-bike and dissolved into the dark side of the night.

_____

“Time to get ready,” said Laurent. He rose and walked to the cockpit.

Kaley closed and returned the tattered old journal she was reading to the open box containing four similar journals, all of them written by an ancestor near the turn of the seventeenth century. They’d been bequeathed to her by her Great Grandma Kathryn—‘GGK’ as she referred to her. The woman died when Kaley was barely three, so her only visual image of the frail old woman was the one in the creased, edge-worn photograph tucked in the same box. Her hands still gloved for reading, Kaley picked up the photograph. She smiled at it, remembering how the fading picture first suggested to her younger self that GGK had lived in a black and white world—one so different from the vibrant, color-filled Caribbean life she herself now enjoyed. Yet GGK, like many ancestors before her, lived her life in these same islands. Their world had been no less colorful than Kaley’s. What’s more, the journals confirmed that it wasn’t just the environment that was colorful—their lives were as well. And why wouldn’t they be, given the deep history of piracy and war in this part of the world?

“Fifteen minutes,” Laurent called out. Kaley knew that was his way of telling her to furl the catamaran’s sails in preparation to enter the harbor. She removed her reading gloves and carried the box down to the master cabin, where she placed it in the closet. Grabbing her cover-up, she headed back up to the main deck. Her mind turned to the black-tie gala later that evening, hosted by the Mustique Island Marine Society. ‘I hate galas,’ she thought. ‘Too many people I don’t know and have to make conversation with.’ That wasn’t one of her strengths. Maybe it would have been if she’d grown up in high society, rather than the back end of the economic continuum with a culture-tainted view of the rich. ‘Oh well,’ she took a deep breath, ‘this is the world I married into. I can’t begrudge him the recognition for his contributions to the Society, as stuffy as it is.’

This wasn’t the first time Laurent was being honored for something, but he seemed anxious about this particular gala. His usual demeanor was as even-keeled as their catamaran in glass-like water. Leading up to the gala, however, it had become dark, to the point of unsettling. Distracted and distant, his sense of humor had hibernated. ‘Another woman, perhaps?’ With his thick, jet-black hair, full eyebrows, flint-edged jaw and athletic physique, Laurent was magazine-model material. Not to mention engaging and wealthy. ‘No wonder he’s the target of attractive young women with more botox than intelligence’.

When she questioned him about his mood a few days back, Laurent blew it off, citing the stress of his technology project. Whatever it was, it needed to end. ‘Nothing should come between us and our idyllic life together. Not now. Not ever.’

“Let go the mainsail halyard,” Laurent called out. “Easy now.”

Kaley responded, lowering the mainsail, flaking it, tying it down and then doing the same with the self-tacking jib.

Laurent started up the dual diesel engines. “Ready to finish?” he asked as Kaley came alongside beneath the hard-shell bimini. This would be her final test on bringing Rum Runner II into the harbor and docking it. At forty-five feet, the live-aboard Seawind 1370 was larger than their previous catamaran. Laurent had purchased it to replace his father’s ageing Andromeda MAC 12, with the agreement that Kaley would master the art of sailing the Seawind. She snatched Laurent’s captain’s hat from his head. “Out of my way, sailor.”

Entering the harbor, Kaley thought back to the first time she’d done this. The rows of sailboats and other vessels nestled edge-to-edge in tight slips made for a visually daunting gauntlet. Back then, she’d wondered whether it was something she’d ever accomplish. While her fine motor skills were well developed as a pianist, her gross motor skills were seldom tested. Still, handling the throttles was all about feel.

“Remember, two knots,” said Laurent.

Kaley grimaced at him; unshaken and unstirred. Guiding Rum Runner II down their channel, she let it slow to less than a knot, then let go of the helm, locked it, and grabbed hold of the throttles. Nearing the slip, Kaley eased back on the starboard throttle and slid the port throttle forward, turning the catamaran hard to starboard. With little breeze and no tide, she came in head-on. “Gently now,” she whispered to herself, checking the distance on either side of the hulls to manage any drift as the boat slid forward. She maneuvered the throttles to neutral.

‘Welcome back,” hailed Queenston, the dock attendant dressed in all-white. As he approached, Laurent threw out the bumpers. Rum Runner II coasted into position. Queenston grabbed the line at the bow as Laurent jumped onto the dock with the stern line in hand and wrapped a hitch knot around the rear cleat. He saluted Kaley, “Well done, Captain!”

Kaley responded with a thank-you smile, launching Laurent’s captain’s hat into the air like a college graduation mortar board. He watched it descend into the saltwater. Queenston laughed, his white teeth gleaming in the bright, early afternoon sun.

_____

I drove to the property manager’s office to sign the papers for the box-like pink house I’d be renting. Not my color preference but it suited my needs. It was in a neighborhood with a small park behind it, not some mixed-use area. And it wasn’t far from the shops, restaurants and bars—like where I grew up in El Dorado.

I parked and walked to the door. With a little time to spare, I texted my mom.

[R]: Found a place. About to sign the papers

She texted back within moments.

[M]: Safe neighborhood?

[R]: So I’m told

[M]: Hope they’re right.

[R]: Don’t worry, I got this

[M]: Expensive?

Mom watched every dime. I couldn’t tell her Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) was paying for it.

[R]: No

[M]: Dad always worried about the rent. It creeps up over time.

[R]: I know. Hey, the property manager waved me in. Gotta go.

I disconnected and glanced at the strip mall. Faded colorful signs didn’t help offset the grunge. Some kind of black mold spread across shadowed portions of the walls. The door to the property manager’s office rubbed the floor as I walked in. The place was small and stuffy. A roundish, dark-skinned local sat behind an old wooden desk with a folding chair in front that I presumed was there for clients like me.

“Good morning. I’m Ryder.”

The man rose, smiling broadly and reaching across the desk to extend a large, fleshy hand. “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Cruz. You be right on time. That not always the Barbadian way.” He short-laughed.

“If you’re late, you lose.”

The manager frowned, “Things be different here. We prefer to enjoy island life, not rush through it.”

“Wish I could. It’s just not in my genes.”

He shook his head as though thinking I was a typical American and pushed forward the papers, pointing out where to sign and initial. I grabbed a pen from a glass tumbler and signed off. “You brought deposit?” he asked.

I pulled a thin stack of Barbadian dollars from my pocket and handed it to him.

“Enjoy the house. And keep it clean, yeah?” He grinned. We both knew the place wasn’t anywhere near clean.

“I’ll give it the Navy treatment.”

_____

Kaley stepped out of the shower and into his line of sight.

“What do you think?” asked Laurent. “The Tom Ford O’Connor or the Brioni?”

Kaley knew he looked dashing in either tuxedo but sensed caché mattered at the gala. “The Italian,” she replied. “Every time.”

He laid both tuxedos on the Bernhardt canopy bed and came at her with a grin, his left eyebrow raised, arms extended. “You’re tempting me.”

Kaley was a little surprised. Laurent hadn’t been in the mood much lately. Of course, when she was fresh from the shower and wrapped in a thick towel, he often acted as though he had a thing for easy prey.

“There’s no time,” she protested, turning her back to him.

Laurent pressed against her, wrapping his arms around and under her breasts. “It’s island time,” he whispered. “Bahamas, I believe.” He knew damn well the Bahamas were an hour behind Mustique.

“Since when does it take an hour?”

“Not today,” he said, loosening the towel.

Kaley let it drop. She turned and looked up into his chestnut eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible is where I live.”

It was indeed. Laurent’s brilliance had taken him to Cal, for his PhD in Engineering. His doctoral thesis was on the application of artificial intelligence to ‘Nano LEDs’, the near-impossible frontier of the digital display universe.

Her hair still wet, Kaley felt the drip far down her back, near his hands. “Impossible is where we’ll be if we don’t make it to the gala on time.”

“That’s on me.” Laurent swept her up and carried her to the canopy bed.

“You may want to move the tuxedos,” said Kaley.

Chapter 2

“It’s Kostin, sir,” announced the guard at the entry gate.

“Let him through,” answered Worthington. Silver haired and dressed in a tropical linen suit, he slid open the glass patio door and stepped into his office. It was designed with a modern law library in mind. The walls were covered in dark mahogany bookshelves with back-mounted LED lighting strips. His expansive desk was a complementary mahogany with sterling silver edging. The spartan desktop contained only his laptop, a modern style reading light and a colorful coffee-table book about Caribbean Islands life.

Worthington stopped at a side cabinet, pouring a glass of 25-year Macallan scotch, neat, before heading to his desk. He opened a drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper confirming a bitcoin transfer. He was anxious to close with Kostin and move on. His private plane was waiting at the airport to transport him to Mustique Island for the Marine Society Gala.

“Mr. Kostin sir,” announced Ranesha, his admin.

Kostin entered, his jeans, tropical shirt and cowboy boots shouting ‘tourist’. The former Army ranger didn’t need the heels on his out-of-place boots; he was 6’4” without them. The man had a menacing look—dark piercing eyes and a bald head except for a thick, graying beard. The 3” scar on his upper right cheek aimed at the notch in his ear—both remnants of enemy fire in Kandahar. That bloody place also left him with a slight limp. He didn’t bother extending his hand.

“Have a seat.” Worthington pointed to the two leather chairs across from him. They were set low, to give him the power position he preferred. The marked difference in their height, however, put them at eye level.

Kostin pulled a flash drive from his shirt pocket and slid it across the desk before taking a seat. “Your proof.”

Worthington plugged it into his laptop and opened the folder. A handful of photo files popped up. He double-clicked on the first—the bloodied face of the man who’d left his employment six weeks earlier. Now deceased. The second photo showed the same man’s body strewn on a hallway floor, near the entryway of an old house. The next two photos were of two other men, each lying prone on the floor of a room. He nodded at Kostin. “Well done.” He closed the laptop and withdrew the flash drive. “You have the ring?”

Kostin pulled out the skull ring he’d taken from the primary victim and flashed it.

“Good. You can keep that.”

“I’ll add it to my collection.”

“I don’t even want to know what that is,” replied Worthington. “I presume you left no trace.”

“Never do,” Kostin sneered.

“Of course.”

“Even if I hadn’t blown the place up, nothing would suggest anyone but those three had been there.”

“So why blow it up?”

Kostin shrugged off the question. His passion for explosives was a leftover from his experience in Iraq.

Worthington slid the bitcoin transfer confirmation across his desk. “This is what we agreed to.” He picked up his whiskey glass and sipped his Macallan.

Kostin looked at the confirmation and nodded yes. “Any other assignments?”

“Maybe. I have an underperforming asset I may need to walk away from.”

“What’s your timing?”

“Soon enough. I’ll be in touch if and when the time comes.” Worthington slipped the flash drive in his pocket, intending to destroy it later. “How long will you be staying?”

“Long enough for a painkiller.” It was Kostin’s go-to drink in the Caribbean. He got up to leave.

Worthington remained seated, scotch in hand. “Don’t go far. And keep Ranesha up to date on your burner numbers.”

Kostin nodded and left, fondling the skull ring in his right pocket.