Pirate

  “We’ll find out come morning when the banks open. But assuming her attorney could convince a judge you’ve been hiding assets, then yes she can. If I had to guess, this forensic accountant of hers suggested it. Trying to force your hand to see where your money is moving from.”

  Charles carried his glass and the bottle of whiskey to his desk, then sat. “She wants to start a war? I’m willing to dig in for as long as it takes.”

  “Or you could pay her what she’s asking and end it.”

  “No.” Charles took a swig of his drink. It would be a cold day in hell before he allowed that, he thought.

  His phone rang. It was Fisk. Finally.

  “I have an update from Jamaica,” Fisk said. “You may not like what you hear, but, I assure you, it’ll work out.”

  He clenched his glass in his hand. “Work out? Are you telling me you failed to get the documents?”

  “About that . . . Turns out, the Fargos may have survived after all.”

  Anger surged through him. “What the— How is it those two keep slipping through your fingers?”

  “I told you, they aren’t your average couple. Sam Fargo has extensive training at DARPA and possibly even the CIA. The wife was a Boston College graduate . . .” Avery heard him shuffling papers as he checked his notes. “. . . with a master’s in anthropology and history with a focus on ancient trade routes.”

  “Which explains her interest in treasure. What it doesn’t explain is how she escaped.”

  “Unless you factor in that she’s extremely intelligent—and an expert marksman.”

  “And what? Somebody handed her a gun on board the Golfinho? I don’t want to hear excuses for your failures. I pay you for confirmed results.”

  “Mistakes were made. They’re being addressed.”

  “I was under the impression that the crew you hired to take over the Golfinho was more than capable of dealing with a couple of spoiled jet-setters who keep sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

  “As mentioned, they’ve been dealt with. In the meantime, we have a lead on the Fargos. My men were able to follow them from the car rental to Kingston. Unfortunately, the Fargos managed to evade them. But they won’t for long.”

  “I thought you said that these men were capable of getting the job done.”

  “They are.”

  “Then how is it that these two meddlesome socialites have managed to elude them thus far? To me, that sounds as though your men are anything but capable.”

  “I warned you the Fargos were resourceful.”

  Charles slammed his glass to the desk, whiskey sloshing over the rim. “You told me that you could handle this. That your men could handle this.”

  “They can. And they will.”

  “They better. I want those documents and then the Fargos eliminated. Period. If you can’t trust them to get the job done, then handle it yourself. I want results, not incompetence.”

  “Understood. We do have a plan. I’ll call you once the details are firmed up.”

  Charles dropped the phone into the cradle, grabbed his glass, then took a long drink.

  “I take it,” Winton said, “the news isn’t good?”

  “How about you concentrate on keeping my wife from getting her hands on my fortune. I’ll worry about my extracurricular activities.”

  “As long as you’re aware that any money you’re moving toward those activities might be discovered.”

  “I’m well aware of the risks.”

  Winton nodded, then stood. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll see myself out.”

  He left, and Charles poured himself another drink, his eye moving to the scratch pad. The Fargo name glared up at him. He ripped it from the pad, crumpled it, then tossed it to the ground. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what angered him more—the Fargos inserting themselves into his business or his wife trying to steal his fortune.

  Death was too good for all of them.

  Which made him wonder, did he really want Alexandra dead?

  Actually, he did. She might be the mother of his children, but neither of them had anything to do with him. They were definitely their mother’s spawn. What he needed to do was make sure his wife was dealt with in the most expedient manner possible. The question was, how? How to make it look like her death had nothing to do with him?

  First things first, he thought. Deal with the Fargos. An hour later, Fisk called him back.

  “I have good news . . .”

  Twenty-six

  Sam and Remi rose early the next morning and drove to the archives, making sure they were there the moment the doors opened for business. Sam left Remi at the front entrance, deciding he wanted to take a quick look around before following her in.

  She entered the building, checked the directory, and found the Records Department, noting a flurry of activity in the halls as employees hurried about, clearly too busy to take notice of her. A woman in bright yellow, wearing a turquoise scarf tied around her dark hair, dropped a thick stack of manila folders on the counter, then started to walk away.

  “Excuse me,” Remi said. “Do you work in Records?”

  The woman looked up. “Yes. Have you not been helped?”

  Remi smiled at her. “Not yet.”

  “My apologies. The unexpected storm damage caught us by surprise. Alarms going off all night, water getting in. As you can guess, we’re all quite busy. But what can I do for you?”

  “We were hoping to have a look at some old shipping manifests.”

  “We?”

  “My husband. When he gets here.”

  She reached below the counter and pulled out a form. “Researchers, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you can fill out the information, I’ll get to you as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.”

  By the time Remi filled out the form, Sam had joined her.

  “Looks clear out there,” he said. “How’s it going in here?”

  “Slow. Storm damage apparently.”

  “At least the air conditioner works. All that rainwater from last night is turning the island into a sauna.”

  When the woman returned, she looked over the paper. “Shipping manifests, you say?”

  “Yes,” Remi said. “I don’t suppose you know if anyone else has been here asking about this particular time period?”

  “No. You’re the first,” she said, then led them to the archives, pointing out the row where they’d need to start their search. “Everything’s by year. I’d say it shouldn’t be too difficult to locate, but sometimes things get misfiled.”

  “Thanks,” Remi said, hoping that wasn’t the case. There were hundreds of volumes, which meant if something was misfiled, it would be difficult to find.

  Sam moved to the far end of the row, Remi started at the beginning, and they worked their way toward each other. Eventually they met in the middle, Sam saying, “Come here often?”

  “It’s a good thing that’s not the pickup line you used when we first met at the Lighthouse.”

  “I thought that was the line I’d used.”

  “Glad I didn’t hear or we might not have had a second date.” She maneuvered around him. “I’m having no luck.”

  He returned his attention to the shelves. “What’re the chances the one book we need—”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “I’ll go over what you covered. You go over my half.”

  But the results were the same.

  Sam started on the next row, even if the years were way off. Remi looked over the volumes they’d already checked, pulling them from the shelf and looking inside just to make sure the bindings hadn’t been mismarked.

  “Nothing,” Sam said. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” She retu
rned a book to the shelf and pulled out another. Although she’d gone through several centuries, none matched up to the time period in question. About an hour into their search, a thought wormed its way into Remi’s head. “Sam . . . Why aren’t Avery’s minions here, looking?”

  “Waiting for us to find the information so they can steal it again.”

  “What if—”

  She stopped when the clerk who had first helped them entered, pushing a cart before her. The woman looked up, surprised to see them. “Still at it?” she asked.

  “It’s not here,” Remi said.

  “That’s hard to believe. What year?”

  “Sixteen ninety-four through sixteen ninety-six.”

  The woman walked up to the same shelves they’d searched. “I hope the volumes weren’t misfiled . . .” After a few moments, she straightened. “Wait. I noticed a stack of books on the research table. I assumed someone was in the midst of a project, so left them alone. Maybe it’s there.”

  She pointed them in that direction. Sure enough, there were several volumes on the table. One was sitting well away from the others.

  Sam walked over, examined the cover, then the spine. “This looks like the one.”

  “Finally.” Remi moved to his side, watching as he turned the pages, not daring to voice her concern as to why this particular book happened to be singled out. But after a few moments, he found the records in question.

  “There was an inquest.”

  “For what?”

  “Claims that the Mirabel was stolen in June 1696.”

  “Good. Then that should tell us who the owner was.”

  “If we can wade through the testimony.” He slid the book her way.

  The flowery script was hard to read. “Makes you appreciate modern type.”

  “Look at this,” Sam said, pointing to a paragraph lower on the page. “Testimony from a crew member who claims that he was captured in Madagascar and taken aboard the Fancy by Captain Henry Bridgeman, arriving first in Jamaica, before setting sail for New Providence . . . On arriving at Nassau, they claimed to be interlopers pursued by the East India Company and were allowed into port.”

  “Interlopers?”

  “If I remember my history,” Sam said, “that would be unlicensed slavers. It was a way of getting past the slave monopoly held by the East India Company.”

  “Bridgeman was a slaver.”

  “As well as a pirate.”

  “So he’s the owner that we’re looking for?”

  “No,” he said, scanning the page. “Bridgeman turned the Fancy over to Governor Trott as part of a bribe for safe harbor. Trott denied all knowledge of the ship and Bridgeman, but this crew member claims that part of its cargo was stolen before Trott could lay claim to it—and the thief fled in the Mirabel just before it sank off Snake Island.” He paused as he read further. “This is interesting . . .”

  “What is?”

  “Bridgeman was being pursued by the Royal Navy . . . Commander . . .” He turned the page. “Gone,” he said after a moment.

  “Commander Gone? Or gone as in not there?” she asked, leaning in for a closer look. “This is the right book, isn’t it?”

  “Several pages are missing.”

  He ran his finger down the center. Jagged edges were all that was left where the pages had once been.

  Remi looked at Sam, that seed of suspicion growing. “Didn’t she say something about alarms going off last night?”

  “Undoubtedly it had nothing to do with the storm.”

  “All this time wasted.”

  “Let’s take it up front. See if anyone remembers anything about this book or who might have come to look at it.”

  When they arrived at the office, the counter clerk looked up from her paperwork. “Something wrong?”

  Sam slid the book toward her. “It’s the book, all right. Except the pages we need are missing.”

  “Missing?” She eyed the volume. “I don’t understand.”

  “Someone tore them out.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” she asked. “They can photocopy them.”

  “You’re sure no one came in and asked for this particular volume?”

  “Not in the recent past,” she said as her phone started ringing. “A historian came looking over the manifests for inclusion in the museum at the King’s Royal Naval Dockyard, but that was years ago. One moment, please.” She answered her phone. “Archives . . . Of course.” Then to Sam and Remi, “Is there anything else? I have to take this call.”

  “No. Thanks again.”

  They left, Sam pushing open the front door. He stopped suddenly, and Remi nearly ran into the back of him.

  “Company,” he said, nodding toward the parking lot. She looked out, saw the white SUV and, near it, one of the men from the warehouse. He was looking at the screen of his phone as he walked with a noticeable limp toward the driver’s door.

  Sam pulled Remi to one side of the lobby, out of sight.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Let’s see if there’s another exit.” There was, at the side of the building. Sam opened the door. “Looks clear.”

  They headed the opposite direction of the parking lot, rounded the corner, and came face-to-face with Jak Stanislav, the man who robbed the bookstore. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his leather coat, a leering smile on his face.

  Sam stopped short, positioning himself between Jak and Remi. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Fancy,” Jak said. He pulled a gun from his right pocket and pointed it at Sam. “How about we do an about-face and return to the car, where my friends are waiting.”

  “Or not,” Sam said.

  “Hands up or I’ll kill you right here.”

  Sam slowly raised his hands, then punched his right hand at Jak’s face and his left at the gun, knocking it upward. In a flash, he took the gun, slammed Jak into the building, then shoved the barrel of the gun into Jak’s head.

  Remi barely had time to react when she felt the sharp barrel of a weapon against her back. She looked behind her. A towering man glared down at her, saying, “Call your husband off.”

  They’d brought in reinforcements.

  “Sam . . .”

  Sam turned, saw the man holding a gun on Remi. He lowered the weapon, handing it back to Jak, then put his hands up over his head.

  Jak sneered at him. “Thought you might see it my way. And, word to the wise—Ivan’s trigger happy.”

  A moment later, the white SUV pulled up, parking at the curb next to them. Jak nodded toward the vehicle. “Get in.”

  The odds had risen, but Sam refused to move.

  Ivan said, “I have no problem shooting you right here in public. Beginning with your wife.” He aimed his weapon at Remi, stepping in close. “Backseat, Fargo. Now.”

  “All the way over,” Jak said, and Sam slid to the far side. He pointed his gun at Remi. “Now you. Middle seat.”

  She climbed in. Jak climbed in next to her, shoving the gun into her side. “Buckle up.”

  She pulled her seat belt around her, Sam doing the same, saying, “Worried your insurance rates will go up if anything happens to us?”

  The new guy climbed into the front passenger seat and looked back at them. “What insurance?”

  “Where are you taking us?” Sam asked.

  “A little ride.”

  Remi slid her hand toward Sam, felt his fingers entwine hers.

  The road forked up ahead, and the driver headed left, clearly a less traveled route. Soon the steep road was one switchback turn after another, and the driver slowed to a crawl, navigating the wide SUV up the narrow road.

  Jak craned his neck. “Good enough,” he said. “Stop here.”

  The silent driver pulled into a narrow turnout at the side of the
road. He got out, opened Sam’s door, and motioned with his gun for Sam and Remi to get out.

  Remi waited for Sam to exit, then slid over, swinging her feet out. The heat of the jungle enveloped her the moment she stepped her foot on the ground. Lush green foliage dripped with moisture from last night’s rain, the humidity too thick to allow it to evaporate. Instead, it all seemed to drip down, running together, forming a rivulet that ran across the road, then on down the hillside.

  Jak pointed with his gun. “On the side of the road, both of you.”

  “Look,” Sam said. “If you’re going to kill us, at least let me kiss my wife good-bye.”

  “Hurry up.”

  Sam stepped in close to Remi, reaching beneath his fishing vest. “Guess that vacation will have to wait.”

  She tried to laugh.

  Sam pivoted. With a quick, two-handed aim, he shot the driver in the middle of his forehead.

  Twenty-seven

  Crack! Crack!

  Sam snapped off two more rounds but missed the other killers as he suddenly felt nothing but air beneath his feet.

  Unaware, he and Remi had stepped back, causing the muddy ground at the edge of the hill to crumble under their weight. They both lost their balance and toppled over the edge of the steep hill.

  Sam crashed into a maze of greens and browns swirling in front of him as he slid at breakneck speed down the hill.

  He lost his grip on Remi’s arm and she vanished from his sight as he grabbed at tree branches and fern fronds, trying to slow his descent.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  The volley of return gunfire sent birds screeching from their roosts. Sam spotted a fallen tree coming up on his left. He twisted sideways and tensed as he slammed into what felt like a big pile of mush that stopped his momentum. Stunned, and covered with slime from a tree trunk that had rotted from years in the damp forest, he wiped the muck off his face. He moved slowly, feeling for injury. It took a minute before pain began to register, but, fortunately, the decayed tree had softened his impact. Nothing was broken.

  “You fool!” Ivan’s voice carried down. “You let them get away.”