Relic Page 2

  “Tell me where the artifact is.”

  “What artifact? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jake wiped his upper lip, leaving a streak of blood on the back of his wrist.

  “You’re lying. Irina had it. I’m not gonna waste time here.”

  “Go ahead and search.”

  “I’m not known for patience. Start talking or you’re a dead man.”

  “Start listening and maybe you’ll start hearing.”

  “Get up!” The killer gestured with his gun toward the cabin door. “I’m sorry, my friend. I don’t believe your story. I gave you a chance to come clean. Unfortunately, it is not convenient to keep you alive. We would like to find out what you know, but it really doesn’t matter. We know the confession is on your boat. I will find it, but I can’t be distracted by your presence.” Again he gestured with his gun toward the cabin door. “Move!”

  They eased down the stairs. Just as Jake was opening the door onto the back deck, he stopped it half way and shook it, feigning that it wouldn’t open. “Great!” he spat out in total frustration. “I never fixed this lousy door.” He pulled it shut. “I need a screwdriver.” Jake didn’t wait to find out if the thug believed his ploy. He turned around before the man had time to answer. Jake reacted as if he was frightened by the gun. He raised his hands defensively, showing his open palms to the shooter. “Wow, man, don’t shoot.”

  Jake rotated his upper body sideways. In the same moment, his hand snapped outward, grabbing shooter’s left wrist and shoving the gun away. The gun was now aimed to shoot past him, because he was standing sideways. In the blink of an eye, Jake grabbed the gun with his free hand and jerked the gun and wrist toward his chest so that the shooter couldn’t make an adjustment and shoot him. This bent the shooter’s wrist backwards so that the gun was pointing at the shooter’s neck. The man’s trigger finger broke, and he screamed.

  The shooter had a free hand, so Jake moved very quickly. With a firm hold on the shooter’s forearm and hand, he heaved the man’s arm like a rope and forced it downward, which pulled the man off balance. He landed on his back.

  Jake now had the gun, but the assassin used the agony of his broken finger to his advantage. As he screamed in pain, he pulled his knees to his chest. His feet then exploded outward, hitting Jake in the ribs and blasting him backward. Jake crashed through the door and landed out on deck, where he rolled and heard the gun splash into the water. The acrid smell of diesel fumes tainted his next breath of air. The boat rolled gently.

  Just as he stood up, the assassin charged out the galley door like a running back breaking through the line of scrimmage. Jake’s instinct told him that he was going to get knocked overboard, so he dove downward at the attacker’s knees. This took him out and caused the attacker to land on his face as his feet were blasted out from beneath him like bowling pins.

  Jake saw the assassin going for a knife, so he rapidly unbuckled his belt and jerked it out of the loops.

  The assassin acted fast, whipping his knife out of a sheath on the inside of the waist of his pants. He waved the blade around in the air.

  Jake lashed out with his leather belt, whipping the man’s knife arm.

  The man screamed and recoiled.

  Jake attacked again, this time whipping the man across the side of the face. The leather left a nice stripe on his cheek.

  This time the assassin screamed with rage and lunged forward, grabbing Jake’s wrist.

  Using this to his advantage, Jake pulled his wrist back toward him and stepped out of the way. He then pulled the attacker toward the stern.

  As the man stumbled for the back rail, Jake felt the killer’s grip tighten around his wrist. The man went overboard, but he clung to Jake’s wrist as a lifeline.

  Unfortunately, the killer’s survival instinct doomed him to a grim end. Because he was clinging to Jake’s wrist, he didn’t fall away from the boat, but just the opposite. The killer pulled himself back toward the boat just as he hit the water.

  His legs made contact with the spinning propeller, and he was sucked under.

  Jake was pulled off balance, and he fell toward the back rail head first. As Jake landed on the rail, he bent his knees, using them like grappling hooks to stop him from going overboard. Right in front of his face, the wake turned red as if ten gallons of crimson dye had been dumped overboard.

  Jake pulled back and landed on deck on his side. “No!” He staggered to his feet and turned toward the house so that he wouldn’t have to see the crimson wake. “What were you doing on my boat?” he shouted in rage.

  Jake threw glances across the water. In the far distance he saw a sailboat. It was a small white triangle so unless they had their binoculars out, they wouldn’t have witnessed what just happened. He signed with relief.

  Jake went into the galley and slammed the door behind him. “Great fishing trip!” He dropped to his knees and pounded on the floor with his fist.

  He thought, I’m in a lot of trouble—with the law. And whoever those other people were, they would be back for revenge.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jake entered the wheelhouse and checked the autopilot. He was still on course. A quick glance at the radar, however, caught his attention. A blip on the radar not far off. A woman had just been kidnapped from his boat. Not a good thing. Within the same hour, a man had died during a fight on his boat. Even worse. He could just imagine trying to explain this to the Coast Guard. They would think he was a killer. This would stand out as one of the more extraordinary maritime news events in years. Add to that the fact that Jake couldn’t explain any of it, and he would look guilty. He would be a suspect in murder and kidnapping—although it might take some time to figure out who had been kidnapped and who had been killed.

  If it was just a case of self-defense, he might be able to extricate himself from this predicament. Unfortunately, when the judge and jury were forced to add in a case of kidnapping of a beautiful woman, it would not look good.

  Jake could just imagine the headline: “Love Triangle Ends in Double Murder.”

  There was no way that he could tell this story and expect to just be let go. They would hold him until they figured out who was missing and what had happened. Once they figured that out, there was no telling what would happen.

  At that moment in time, Jake felt that he might lose his freedom—and possibly for a long time. That was unacceptable. Prison was not the place for him. He was no criminal, and he would not want to try and survive in prison. He did not want to live out his days as a caged animal. He did not deserve that.

  Therefore, Jake could not go to the authorities, yet he had to figure out on his own—as quickly as possible—who these people were and what was going on. When he went to the authorities, he had to bring evidence—or they would bury him.

  His eyes widened at the radar blip. It better not be the Coast Guard, he thought.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jake went down into the engine room and found that the boat was taking on water. His patch job had somehow failed. He stuffed the life preserver back into the hole, but some water was still getting in. Cold water was ankle deep and rising. If he didn’t get this boat out of the water, it would sink.

  Back in the wheelhouse, using the VHF radio, Jake called the Bellingham dry-docks. They agreed to give him a priority lift as soon as he arrived.

  Jake sat in the captain’s seat and manned the helm, which looked like a big old wagon wheel with spokes. As he watched a flock of seagulls circling some prey in the water, he thought of the girl. Trouble had arrived an hour ago when he’d saved her life. Jake remembered the magical word that she had said: “Maravillas.” As a maritime historian, Jake was familiar with many Spanish shipwrecks, including the treasure wreck of the Bahama Channel. Back in the 17th century, a treasure fleet had been overwhelmed by a hurricane. Several ships were pushed onto the sandbanks and reefs and pummeled by the raging storm. The commander of the treasure fleet had panicked and fled, certain that any attempts to
rescue the doomed sailors would result in more shipwrecks and casualties. Therefore, his ship and several others left hundreds of Spanish sailors to die on the reefs of Los Mimbres.

  Now, after three centuries, when Jake had touched the bundle Irina was clinging to with a death grip, this girl, pulled from a sinking boat, almost hypothermic, in and out of consciousness, had spoken of the Maravillas and some confession. What on earth was she talking about? A man had just tried to kill him—because of some confession lost for three centuries. What could possibly have been confessed three hundred years ago that would still matter?

  Jake watched the rain come down in sheets on Puget Sound. He eyed the compass and put down a couple of spokes on the wheel. He spotted a ship and snatched up his binoculars. It was just a tramp ship. Probably heading up to Alaska. Jake opened a chart drawer and checked his old chronometer. He didn’t usually carry a smartphone around with him because he was old-fashioned. He was nostalgic. He liked antiques. He wished he’d have been born a hundred years earlier…or two hundred. Anyway, he had connections and associations and feared being tracked. For the same reason, he drove an old car—no computers. He put the chronometer back.

  Jake stepped over to the chart desk and opened his laptop. He shook his head. It wasn’t easy to get away from technology. He went on Google Earth and searched one of the islands by where he’d rescued Irina. He saw no helicopter pad. His fingers were shaking intensely.

  By the time Jake swung into Bellingham, his boat was riding low in the water. He called ahead and they had the heavy lift ready and waiting for him. He eased his boat forward underneath the square superstructure of the heavy lift, which was like a steel construction of square beams—all on wheels.

  Once the heavy-lift straps were beneath the hull, the hydraulic lifts reeled in the straps, which lifted the fishing boat out of the water. With the boat clear of the water, the operator backed the heavy lift up the ramp and moved it to a location in the boat yard where a crew was standing around and where blocks had been set up. The heavy lift set the boat down on the blocks as men scrambled around and set up metal supports called keel stands. They removed the straps, and the heavy lift rolled away. A dockyard worker leaned a ladder against the railing, and Jake climbed down.

  The dockyard worker said, “This your boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you hit some floating debris. Is that right?”

  “It was definitely floating.”

  “It’s a good thing you pulled this thing out. You’ve got something wrapped around your propeller.”

  Jake felt his stomach sink. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. Material. Looks like an old pair of jeans. I wish people would stop throwing their trash in the water.”

  “So do I,” Jake said. “It’s a real problem.”

  Jake went over to the office to take care of the paperwork. A lively, smiling young woman discussed the financial options and had Jake sign the work order.

  “The work will take a couple of weeks,” she said.

  “That’s fine. Look, I need to go back on my boat. Is that alright?”

  “Of course. Just be careful on that ladder.”

  ***

  Jake wandered over to his boat, which was on blocks. In the wheelhouse, he continued with his Google Earth search. He surveyed three more islands. He knew a helicopter could have come from any of them. A pilot didn’t need a lot of space to land a helicopter. A patch of grass would be sufficient. No guarantees, but he decided Cutter Island was his best bet. It was a private island, a mile long with a large home and several outbuildings. It stood out because of the tennis court. The net and the fences had been taken down, leaving the cement pad, which was a short walk to the house. It would make a perfect landing pad, but not draw any attention.

  He called up the San Juan County Assessor’s office. The island was owned by the Barbarra International Corporation. Jake went online to the Washington Secretary of State’s website and did a corporation search for Washington corporations. No Barbarra International Corporation was registered, so Jake guessed it was probably an offshore corporation. He went back to Google Earth and studied to geography of the Cutter Island, but especially the shoreline. One cove caught his attention.

  “Maybe. I’ll take a look,” he mumbled.

  CHAPTER 5

  With Canada and her islands on the horizon, Jake raced the speedboat by Cutter Island, an evergreen tree-covered island. Cutter was a mile long and half a mile wide, with several bays and bights along the rocky shores. It offered numerous coves where he could stash his boat.

  The waters were calm, and Jake dropped anchor in a small cove on the opposite side from where the compound was located. Glancing back out over the water, he looked at the Canadian islands for a couple of minutes. If the helicopter hadn’t come from Cutter Island, it could have come from one of those. Jake would hopefully find out soon.

  With one pistol in his shoulder holster and another tucked under his belt, he looked around. The little cove was surrounded by trees and sandstone cliffs on the sides with a beach at the head. A bald eagle was perched on the branch of a dead tree.

  Jake waded ashore, his feet crushing old clam shells. The beach was lined with driftwood logs. Jake stepped up onto a relatively flat rocky shelf. He stopped and listened for any aircraft, boats, or even voices. He heard nothing of concern, but found himself transfixed by the tide pool at his feet. He saw a sand dollar beneath a strand of seaweed. A little crab skittered across the sand at the bottom of the pool. Jake saw a minnow swim above a sea anemone. The anemone’s tentacles ejected stingers with neurotoxins. The little fish began to twitch. Paralysis overcame it. The fish was then roped in by the tentacles and eaten alive. Jake frowned. He studied the tree line with caution.

  He climbed a steep bank that had several magnolia trees clinging to it. Cresting on the ridge, he found a motocross trail that seemed to circle the island. He was under the tree canopy now and looked around. The air was fresh and cool. The scent of evergreen trees filled the forest. He was looking at the huge, old-growth trunks of fir trees that reached to well over a hundred-feet high. Ferns and occasional rhododendrons covered the forest floor. Jake was tempted to follow the trail, but if this was the right island, then there was no telling what kind of people he was dealing with. The kind of people that sent out helicopters with teams of killers would have security, and the trail would be an obvious place to monitor.

  Jake left the trail and climbed the spine of the heavily-forested island. Just as he peaked, he heard a helicopter down below. He couldn’t see what was going on because the trees and rainforest blocked his view and there was no clearing around. He had started hiking down the slope toward the private compound when the helicopter rose up from below and flew overhead. He didn’t have a clear view due to the trees, but he saw flashes of it through the mesh of branches, and it appeared to be the same helicopter that had assaulted his fishing boat.

  Now he was sure that he was at the right island. He started again down the slope but had barely taken two steps when he heard growling.

  Two vicious-looking pit bulls bared their teeth and looked at Jake like he needed to die.

  “Good dog,” Jake said, reaching into his pocket slowly.

  The dogs snarled their noses. One crouched down as if getting ready to spring. Jake pulled out his pepper spray and let them have it. The dogs yelped and disappeared into a patch of nettles and a wall of blackberry bushes.

  On the way down the slope, Jake stayed alert for further trouble. He held his Smith & Wesson 9mm in one hand, his pepper spray in the other. His footsteps sunk an inch into the soft, moist ground.

  The estate was located in the middle of a five-acre clearing. The grounds included three sprawling greenhouses and many gardens. The hundred-foot-long greenhouses featured thousands of seedlings in dirt-beds while the gardens featured hundreds of purple and red azaleas and rhododendrons.

  The main house was spectacular. It was a beau
tiful white, two-story mansion, perched just above the water on a rocky shoreline. Off to one side, it had a covered walkway reaching over to the guest house, which was probably 2,500 square feet all by itself. The other end of the house was flanked by an indoor pool, and of course, just beyond that was the old tennis court, which was now used for a helicopter pad.

  Jake heard the sound of an engine and ran from one greenhouse to another so that he could get a good look at the cove, which was the owner’s front yard. He got himself into position just in time to see a red sea plane lift off and fly away.

  Jake frowned. He had arrived too late. He had just missed several people. Hopefully there was someone else left behind because he needed to get some answers.

  He took a long look around for dogs and then made a dash for the pool house. The side door was unlocked, which Jake hadn’t expected. He pulled on a balaclava facemask. Carrying his gun, he walked through the warm pool house, which had a pleasant smell of chlorine. He was surprised when he actually walked through a locker room with a sauna and showers. Then he entered the house. It was a different world from the one that he was used to.

  The mansion had a second indoor pool. This one was actually in the home’s main living area next to the living room. It featured a large cement patio area with ping-pong and pool tables. Twenty foot high glass walls divided this rec room from the main living room. Jake entered this area with its marble floors and twin winding staircases. He heard voices in the kitchen and peeked in. Two maids were cutting vegetables and gossiping in Spanish.

  Jake found a thousand-square-foot conference room. Ten leather chairs lined the shiny walnut conference table on each side. The walnut bookshelves covered a wall that stretched eighty-feet long. As Jake walked by the bookshelves, he allowed his gaze to drift over the books. He saw titles related to international business and banking, history and warfare. He saw sections devoted to biographies of political and business icons, and others devoted to the San Juan Islands.