CHAPTER ONE

Cooled by onshore trade winds, Jamaica’s western beaches were somewhat buffered from the late-summer’s relentless afternoon sun. In the lee of a secluded cove, on the edge of Negril’s famed seven-mile beach, a quaint little town lay nestled along the white-sand shores, starting to come to life. On the two-lane main street, dividing the beach from an assortment of hotels, restaurants and trinket shops, locals were serving a smattering of shoppers and diners, but at this hour, the real action was in the calm, warm, crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean Sea. It was here that the majority of tourists spent their days, intent on making the most of their tropical vacation.

Aptly named Paradise, the town had a new arrival that had captured everyone’s imagination, an enormous motor yacht that dwarfed all of the smaller craft, setting everyone’s tongues to wagging. Anchored several hundred yards from shore, the sheer size of the sleek, white three-decker was an uncommon occurrence for this area, making it impossible to ignore and immediately generating speculation as to which of the world’s twenty-five hundred billionaires owned it. Although the presumed owners had been ashore numerous times, their names remained an unknown; in part, because they kept to themselves and always paid in cash. Adding to their mystic, they were a perfect-looking couple, he undoubtedly a pro athlete and she a supermodel, never mind that no one could find photos of them on the Internet.

Just outside the mouth of the cove, a lone diver was viewing the picturesque setting from another angle. Having left his small boat outside the cove, a hundred yards offshore, he had surfaced to get his bearings and make a final evaluation. With the luxurious vessel lying in plain view of everyone, nearly a quarter mile from land in any one direction, approaching it without being seen left only one option. Satisfied, he made several last-minute adjustments to his gear then submerged for the final leg, unseen by anyone on the beaches, the hotels, or the yacht.

A pro at tactical underwater infiltration, the diver’s muscular, tattooed body was obscured by a lightweight wetsuit, and the mask hid his face. While he would have preferred approaching under the cover of darkness, it was imperative he set things in motion, now, despite the added risks. Keeping to a depth of thirty feet, he swam toward the yacht’s seaward side, having noted earlier that all of the crew had seemed focused in the direction of the town, most likely waiting for their employers to go ashore for dinner and drinks.

Taking eighteen minutes to reach the target, he surfaced near the lower aft deck, on the side furthest from the beach. A swift scan of the area showed no activity except the commotion coming from an open storage locker, a lone deckhand stowing a paddle board. “Help,” the diver cried, his voice faint.

Whipping around, the kid couldn’t immediately locate the source of the distress.

“Down here,” he said, flailing about. “Please, help me.”

Dropping the board, the kid scrambled to the edge of the deck. “Put in your mouthpiece so you’ll have air,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone else was nearby, “then I’ll toss you a life preserver and pull you in.”

“I can’t wait that long,” he said, taking in a mouthful of water. “The tank’s empty, and my leg cramped up.”

Kneeling, the kid leaned out over the edge, extending his arm. “Take my hand, and I’ll pull you aboard.”

Reaching out, the diver desperately tried to get close enough but fell short. “I can’t do it,” he said, momentarily disappearing below the surface before coming up, gasping for air. “Throw me a line, anything, just save me.”

“Hang on,” the kid said, beginning to panic as the diver sank out of sight. Springing into action, he dove in, finding the diver about five-feet down, sinking fast. Grabbing onto an arm, he tried to pull him to the surface, realizing too late that something wasn’t quite right. It was the bubbles coming from the regulator that gave it away.

Having repositioned his mouthpiece, the diver was ready. In the blink of an eye, he locked his arms around the kid, holding him in a bear hug, letting the kid’s pointless struggles play out as they sank lower and lower. As they neared forty feet in depth, he stopped thrashing, taking in water and becoming still in his arms.

Working quickly, the diver used several zip ties to bind the kid’s hands and feet, then to confuse things, he stuffed a rag in his mouth. That done, he resurfaced, using straps to secure him to a deck cleat, tucking him up against the hull. With the kid nearly invisible, he would have plenty of time to get ashore before the body was discovered.

With phase one complete, he resubmerged, finishing one last task before taking the same route back to his boat, wanting to be in a chair and drinking a beer when the show began. The reactions of two specific individuals would dictate his next move.

CHAPTER TWO

The French doors leading out onto the private deck were open, a light breeze wafting through the room as the shear curtains surrounding the canopied bed fluttered in rhythm with the gentle sway of the boat. From inside the yacht’s master suite, the view looked out over the cove, a little slice of heaven on earth, the only disturbance being the longing pleas emanating from the area of the bed. “Oh, Jake,” the woman moaned, every fiber of her being pulsating in tune with his engorged erection, “yes, yes … yeeess!”

Deep in the throes of passion, she suddenly became aware of a relentless pounding at the bedroom door. “Jake,” the intruder shouted, his fist keeping up a steady drumbeat, “are you in there?”

Her brain in a near state of orgasmic mush, the woman tried her best to ignore the distraction and concentrate on her companion. “That’s it,” she cried, so close to going over the top, “harder, faster … don’t stop … oh, God, I’m com—“

“Rachel,” the intruder said, beating against the door with such force that it rattled the hinges, “what the hell’s going on in there?”

“Not now, Randy,” she shrieked, infuriated by what had become an all too common occurrence. “Please … just go away!”

“No, Princess,” he growled, “we’re going to do it now. I heard you say Jake’s name.”

With hot beads of perspiration glistening on her tan, taut, sexually-charged body, this was the best sex she’d had in months and was in no mood for interruptions. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, eager to buy herself some time. “We’ll talk later.”

“What about Jake?”

Only needing a few more minutes, Rachel hungrily guided Jake in and out, picking up the pace with each passing breath. “He’s not here, you big, muscle-bound bazoo,” she said, arching her back, on the verge of climactic release, “Now go away!”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, now slamming his entire mass into the door. “One way or the other, I’m coming in.”

“Nooooo,” she pleaded, sensing the door was about to lose the battle. With the mounting number of anonymous violent threats against the two of them, his blowups were rapidly becoming a part of their daily routine. “It’s unlocked, you—“

There was a thunderous crash as the door came flying off its hinges, her protestations unable to derail the insanity train. As the tall blond-haired bazoo came tumbling into the room, he was quick to cinch up his bright red swim trunks that had slipped down far enough to expose his rock-hard butt. “Where is he?” Randy demanded, his eyes wildly darting around the spacious, elegant stateroom.

Infuriated, Rachel snatched the covers and pulled them up around her chin an instant before his gaze settled on the bed. “Where is who?”

Scowling, he tromped across the room to the walk-in closet, planted his sandal-clad feet in a defensive stance, and yanked open the mahogany door. When no one jumped out to attack him, he vanished inside for a second, then leapt out and shot across the room, barely missing her desk as he ran out onto the deck. Returning, he positioned himself at the foot of her bed, his white linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal his rippling six-pack abs and bulging, freshly-waxed pecs. “You know damn well who I’m talking about,” he snarled, his eyes half crazed. “Now, where is he?”

Seeing the precipitous nature of his emotional state, she took a moment to calm herself. The three months she had been on the run with this bicep-brained hothead had been the longest three years of her life. Who knew that being rich beyond her wildest dreams could end up being such a gigantic nightmare? “Randy,” she reasoned, fighting an uphill battle on that score, “we’re at sea, surrounded by nothing but water, and we’ve told the crew to be on the lookout for anything or anyone who’s even remotely suspicious. Under those circumstances, how the heck is it that you think Jake could be in here?”

Despite the lunacy of his argument, Randy couldn’t let it go. “Jake knows things,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m telling you … he could get in anywhere and do the deed, without anyone ever knowing or tracing it back to him.” He pointed behind him, at the door. “Then there’s the fact that when I was passing by your room, I heard you scream his name.”

Bringing her arms out from under the covers, she ran her fingers through her long, black tresses, wanting nothing more than to yank it out by the roots. She was at the end of her rope with her partner in crime.

“Are you denying it?” he asked, accusing more than questioning.

Rachel sighed. From past experience, she knew that if she didn’t keep her cool in a crisis, Randy would become completely uncontrollable, and he was darn near unmanageable to begin with. To make matters worse, the mere mention of Jake’s name sent him into a panic. “I scream Jake’s name every day,” she explained, then couldn’t help adding, “you moron.”

Eyes narrowing, he scanned the room again, trying to get a handle on the situation. All at once, he reached out and yanked on the satin sheet, tossing it onto the marble floor.

Clamping her legs together, she made no move to strategically cover herself with her hands, even though her recent Brazilian left her a bit exposed. Taking several deep breaths to control her anger, she watched in astonishment as Randy stood, dumb-faced, mesmerized by the rise and fall of her rather ample bare breasts. It wasn’t the first time he had seen her naked, but it was certainly the most compromising. Waiting for him to stop ogling her nipples and lock eyes with hers, her expression dared him to look lower than her chin and warned him of the consequences if he did.

“But Princess,” he argued, knowing her well enough to reflexively place his hands in front of his package, “I could have sworn—“

“Oh, for God’s sake, are you really that dense?” Reaching down between her legs, she pulled out a penis-shaped vibrating dildo and held the wet, wiggling thing up for him to see. “Jake, this is Randy” she said, flinging the flesh-colored siliconized gadget at him, bouncing it off of his brow, “and Randy, that’s Jake. Does that satisfy you … moron?”

Sheepishly nodding, his face flushed a beet red.

“Good,” Rachel snapped, swiftly rolling off the bed, scooping up her toy and holding it inches from his face. “Now get the heck out of here before I introduce Jake to your ass!”

Head down and tail between his legs, Randy hightailed it for the door which, thanks to him, was lying on the floor in front of the splintered opening. Stopping, he bent down to pick it up.

Standing there, she eyeballed his sexy butt, and her anger dissipated. Feeling so damn horny, what she really wanted was for him to turn around and leer at her with desire. “Randy,” she said, her voice soft and vulnerable.

Straightening up, he leaned the door against the wall. “Yes, Princess.”

“I need to get laid in the worst way.”

“Don’t look at me,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “I could oblige, but if Jake ever found out, I’d be a dead man, for sure.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, fetching a silk robe out of the closet. It had just enough material to hide the areas that needed covering. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I meant Jake. I miss him.”

The corner of his mouth crooked up into a sly grin. “You seemed to be doing a pretty good job with that battery-powered schlong.”

“Trust me,” Rachel said, frustrated on multiple fronts, “it’s not the same thing.”

“Well, you better get used to it or find a new boyfriend. After the way we screwed Jake, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for us to let him find us. I know we said we would always save one-third of the money for him, in case he ever decided to join us, but maybe it would be better to FedEx it to him. It would definitely be a hell of a lot safer.”

“FedEx three hundred and thirty-three million dollars? Are you nuts?”

Randy shrugged. “Maybe, but then we could disappear for good, and Jake would never—”

Just then, a series of shrill screams disrupted the lazy ambiance of the cove, leaving no doubt the sound had originated from somewhere on the yacht. When the racket finally stopped, they could hear someone yelling, “Get him out of the water, and start CPR.”

“He’s way past CPR. You need to call the police.”

Looking at Randy, she could feel the blood draining from her head, and her legs began to buckle.

“He’s found us,” he muttered, clutching her arm to keep her from falling. “We’re as good as dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

Shit happens. It’s all in how you handle it. That’s one of the things they teach you in SEALs training, how to control your emotions and channel that energy into defeating your opponent. In the military, it works like a charm, but in civilian life, you have to be more circumspect, necessitating a judicial application of violence. That was the problem. I needed to funnel my anger into a productive outcome, entailing a bulletproof plan, but after several months of chasing down blind alleys, I had reached a dead end.

Then came the big break, a call from an anonymous source providing me with the intel I required to carry out a covert operation on foreign soil, both risky and ill-advised. Although the caller had talked in broad generalities, she had given me two names, agreeing to meet me in Jamaica to fill in all of the sordid details.

That was two days ago, and now I was lounging in a low-slung chair on a pristine beach fronting The Royal Jamaican Hotel, just back from a refreshing dive. A scuba tank, mask and fins lay off to my side. Although it was Thursday, a work day, this was island time, making it about three beers shy of dinnertime. Despite having been born Jake Tinker, there would be no physical evidence to link anyone by that name as ever having been here, dictating the use of fake I.D.s, clear siliconized glue on my fingertips, and a briefcase full of cash. As a contractor to an absurdly rich clientele, I really should have been home in Bellavista, cranking up the $12.3 million remodel of the Peters’ estate; however, depending on the outcome of this trip, there was a good chance I wouldn’t be returning to the States.

All of a sudden, a piercing shriek echoed across the cove, jolting me out of my reverie. Hoisting my binocs, I ignored the assorted paddle boards, kayaks and small boats plying about and zeroed in on one of the largest superyachts I had ever seen, parked in the midst of all the hubbub. While its massive size was impressive, over two hundred feet from stem to stern, it was the name R&R, painted across the back in giant letters, that truly caught my attention. Not only was the yacht the source of the ruckus, it was also my main incentive for traveling to this tropical paradise. Now that the boat’s namesakes, Rachel Beal and Randy Todd, were in my sights, there were scores to settle.

Focusing on the lower aft deck, where the water toys were stowed, I watched as three members of the crew frantically struggled to pull something out of the water, laying it on the deck. Not surprisingly, it was a corpse; bound, gagged and dressed in the same uniform as the crew. Things were about to get interesting.

“Mr. Cary?”

Turning, I eyed the tall, muscular intruder. “Yes,” I said, taking him in, “I’m Grant Cary. Who are you?”

“Denny … Denny Banks. I runs a charteh service, mon. Mr. Ruebens, the ‘otel manager, be telling me yuh were looking to ‘ire a speed boat.”

Taking a moment to study Mr. Banks, he had to be at least six-and-a-half-feet tall with arms that were bigger than my legs; his head was shaved bald; and he was either a native Jamaican or had spent way too much time in the tropical sun. Finishing my appraisal, he appeared to be thirtyish, and his size was more than a little intimidating. “I don’t expect anything fancy,” I said, wanting to feel him out, “just fast and dependable.”

When Denny smiled, his pearly whites were in stark contrast to his jet-black mustache and goatee. “Then I be yuh mon,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “Rum Runner don’ look like much, but nothin’ aroun’ here can outrun ‘er.”

I nodded. “I’ll also need to hire you for a few days … for tasks other than driving the boat.”

Sensing where the discussion was headed, Denny plopped down in the chair next to me. It was akin to a steam bath out here, and he was dressed in slacks, an unbuttoned dress shirt that wasn’t tucked in, and woven leather sandals. Not only were his clothes dry, but there wasn’t even one bead of perspiration on his forehead. “Is yuh lucky day, mon,” he said, signaling for the waitress at the beachside bar to bring him a drink, “it jus’ so ‘appens I be available, but … Denny don’ come cheap, mon, yuh nuh.”

After making sure that no one was looking, I pulled a wad of bills out of my pocket and peeled off five-hundred bucks. “Let’s call that a retainer,” I said, handing it to him. “Consider yourself on my payroll as of five minutes ago. We’ll talk in a few minutes, and if you’re interested …”

Giving Denny time to digest my offer, I resumed my surveillance of the R&R, or rather, its occupants, trying to deduce their next move. As my girlfriend and best friend, they had helped me to avenge our friend’s murder, something we did in spectacular fashion. As part of that caper, we made off with one billion dollars, having temporarily reallocated it from its rightful owner. Only thing is, they decided to bug out of town and keep the money for themselves, making them both top priorities on my shitlist.

After no more than sixty seconds of eyeballing me and then the money, Denny stuffed the loot in his pants pocket. “Ruebens say yuh was a generous mon. Long as yuh don’ wan’ me to kill no one, I be interested.” He paused, sizing me up. “Killin’ be extra, yuh nuh.”

Searching his eyes, I sensed something cold in them—he was dead serious. For the time being, it suited my purposes to allow him to think he could snap me like a twig, then toss me on the barbeque, slather me with a little jerk sauce, and have me for a late-night snack. “As long as you can follow orders,” I said, persuaded by his flexible moral standards, “we’ll get along just fine.”

Denny nodded, equally satisfied.

“What do you say we get out of the sun,” I said, slipping on a shirt, ready to get moving now that a police boat, siren blaring, was speeding toward the R&R, “and I’ll buy you that beer you ordered. Then we can talk business.”

“Shu, mon. Whatever yuh say.”

Standing, I led the way inside, past the long mahogany bar to the rear of the indoor/outdoor watering hole. What I had to discuss with my new employee was best said in private. Picking a remote table, we sat down in large fan-back wicker chairs in a remote corner, and I began to explain my plan.

Almost three-hours later, at 8:11 p.m., I pushed myself away from the table and stared at the empty beer bottles and half-eaten remnants of our third plate of jerk chicken. The bar was really starting to fill up, and the booze was flowing freely, but the chatter from the crowd had been loud enough to drown out our conversation. It was the two guys, several tables away, that had me concerned, seeming a bit too interested in me.

Considering the hour, it was time to get ready for my meeting. Dropping sixty bucks on the table, I stood. “Do we have a deal?” I asked, offering my hand.

“For the kind of money you’re paying,” Denny said, vigorously shaking my hand, “damn straight we’ve got a deal.”

“What happened to your Jamaican accent?” I asked, caught off guard. “Or was I hallucinating?”

“That be for the tourists, mon,” he said, grinning broadly, “but for a fast-spending crazy whitey such as yourself, I’ll throw in the Queen’s English for free.”