Bahama Reckoning

Bahama Reckoning

By

Hank Manley

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: 08001974150

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2007 Hank Manley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/17/2007

ISBN: 978-1-4208-9373-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4208-9388-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-1617-5 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

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Other Books by the Author

A Grand Quest

Beyond the Green Water

Bahama Snow

Bahama Payback

Special thanks to Terri Gordon and Yvonne Henderson for typing and proof-reading Bahama Reckoning. You guys are the best!

~ 1 ~

Friday, 3:30 PM

Victor Torres lay face down, naked, on the padded massage table in his suite at Graycliff Hotel in Nassau. His onyx eyes were closed, and a peaceful expression spread across his handsome face. How wonderful, he thought, to be him.

Victor’s long, sinewy, smooth arms draped from the table. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. Tight, perfect orbs of buttocks flowed to lean, well defined legs. Even in full repose, the power of the Young Bull’s body was evident to the almond skinned girl busily manipulating her fingers into Victor’s left calf. Oil glistened from the shaved surface of Victor’s leg as the attractive Bahamian, clad in brief white shorts and a black bikini top, ran her hands above his knee and carefully began to knead his gluteus maximus.

A sigh of pleasure slipped past Victor’s pursed lips, and he involuntarily spread his legs slightly. The lucky Bahamian girl, he mused, so privileged to be able to rub his magnificent body.

The tentative knock on the door was completely unexpected. Victor’s lids snapped open; his pitch eyeballs rolled toward the sound and bored holes of fury through the heavy mahogany. How dare someone…

A mistake, he concluded. The maid knew better than to disregard the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob. None of his men would risk knocking during one of his sessions. It must have been a guest passing down the hallway. Or perhaps it was a child mischievously running the hall and rapping on all the doors.

Victor eased his eyes closed and willed his body to relax again. His irritation began to ebb just as the knocking sound was repeated. This time the reluctant rap of knuckles was longer, more insistent. The girl’s hands paused, and she ventured a shy peek at Victor’s face.

The Young Bull pulled his hands upward and grasped the two edges of the table. Effortlessly, he twisted his upper body, his triceps bulging, ropey muscles jumping to the surface of his forearms. Victor’s eyes smoldered beneath his crinkled brows.

The Bahamian girl took a half step back from the massage table. A short intake of breath accompanied her movement. Her left hand moved toward her mouth as if to mask any sound that might escape. It was the reaction one would expect from a person suddenly encountering a coiled rattlesnake, poised to strike.

"Lo siento, Senor Victor. Lo siento, the cracking voice issued through the door. I am sorry to disturb you. Pero, es muy importante. Muy importante."

Victor Torres spun gracefully from the massage table and landed without a sound on the carpet. He snatched a small folded towel from an adjacent chair and deftly wrapped it around his waist, tucking an end to lock it in place. Two slight horizontal depressions and a narrow central vertical cavity chiseled his smooth abdominal muscles into a taut six-pack shape.

Victor reached the massive suite door in three long strides. He snapped open the lock and yanked on the knob.

Carlos Barnes stood in the hallway, his fist raised, about to knock a third time.

Barnes was dressed in black pants and a white, collared, short sleeve shirt. A sheen of nervous perspiration spread across his brow. His face was scrunched into an expression of fear and dread. A twitch flapped his lower lip, though no sound emanated.

Victor reached past the threshold and gathered a fistful of Carlos Barnes’ shirt in his left hand. Seemingly without strain, Victor hoisted Carlos into the room by his collar and flicked him toward the massage table with a quick opening snap of his fingers.

Barnes skidded backwards across the deep piled carpet until the center of his sternum crashed painfully against the blunt edge of the apparatus. He cried out in pain and reached around with his left hand for the throbbing area. He stretched his right arm in front of him in a pathetic attempt to ward off a further assault.

"Victor, por favor. No mas, Carlos Barnes pleaded. It is important you know what has happened."

"Horita? Right this second? snapped Victor Torres. Haven’t I told you that I am not to be…?"

The boat, Carlos stammered, the desperation evident in his voice as he dared to interrupt his jefe, his boss, who was perhaps the most powerful man in Colombia and maybe even the whole world! "The boat, the Ceciliana, it has been destroyed. Blown up! Two explosions were reported off Sandy Cay last night."

Victor stood motionless, his soulless black eyes smoldering as they stared at Carlos Barnes. Slowly Victor rotated his head until he focused on the young Bahamian girl standing speechless, incredulous, at the foot of the massage table.

Get out, demanded Victor Torres in a calm but firm voice. He extended his right arm and pointed a long index finger toward the door.

But mista, the girl protested, I aint been paid, an’…

Before the girl could conclude her sentence, Victor was in front of her, his motion so smooth he appeared to glide from one position to the other.

The girl gave a quick start of fear. She tensed her shoulders and lifted her chin to look up at Victor, looming eight inches above her. She never saw a thing, never detected any motion. Yet suddenly her jaw burst into pain, she tasted blood in her mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. Victor’s right hand was just returning to its pointing position.

You heard me, Victor said evenly. Nothing in his voice or expression revealed the energy he had just expended.

The girl clutched her mouth with both hands and raced through the open door. Moans accompanied the sound of her feet pounding down the hallway. Victor casually walked to the door and gently swung it closed.

Turning slowly, Victor Torres placed his clenched fists on his hips and drew a deep breath. His chest expanded, the taut skin stretching across his smooth pectorals. "The Ceciliana has been destroyed? he asked in a skeptical tone. I was aboard her last night. How do you know this, Carlos?"

Believe me, Victor, Carlos Barnes beseeched. I would never disturb you unless something was of vital importance. And I would never report something unless I was certain.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. His thin, black brows knitted above the sockets. He stepped forward and seized Carlos by the shoulders with his powerful fingers, squeezing the flesh and drawing his thumbs painfully into the sensitive nerves running adjacent to the scapula.

What happened, Carlos? Victor demanded through clenched teeth.

Carlos Barnes winced in pain and his knees sagged. A muffled whimper of agony gurgled past his lips. It was on the radio about noon.

What was on the radio? the Young Bull bleated as he intensified his pressure on Carlos’ shoulders. "It can’t be the Ceciliana. I cannot have any more interruptions to our operations in the Bahamas. Do you hear me, Carlos?"

But Victor, he groaned, sinking deeper toward the floor. "Ouch. Please! That hurts. I am not at fault. Suveltame. Let me go."

"Losing the Ceciliana is not acceptable. Don’t you understand? I need that boat, Victor growled as he pushed forward, causing Carlos to sprawl to the floor on his back. Are you sure it was the Ceciliana?"

Victor, divers have already gone down to confirm the identity of the boat. It was only in eighty feet of water, Carlos said. "And I called the boat myself on the satellite phone to be sure. There was no answer, and the Captain knows never to disregard the satellite call. The reports must be accurate. It’s the Ceciliana."

Victor swung his eyes to the ceiling and tightened his jaw in frustration. His fist closed, rippling his forearms and popping his biceps. How can this all be happening to me, he wondered? Me! First, somebody shows up on Sandy Cay and kills every one of the people that Bahamas Defense Force Commodore Jerome MacArthur has responsible for running the drugs to Palm Beach. He even kills two Americans who turn out to be Drug Enforcement Administration agents. What was that all about? What were those guys doing on the island? Nobody ever explained that to me.

Slamming his right fist into his left palm, the Young Bull began to pace the large living room in his suite. Carlos Barnes, sitting on the floor, for the moment was forgotten. Victor’s bare feet padded into the lush pile of the huge Tibetan rug. Slam went the fist as Victor paced across the deep maroons, bright blues and rich golden wool fibers of the expensive floor covering. His fist slapped into his palm in perfect rhythm with the completion of each long stride. Carlos Barnes involuntarily flinched with every crack of the knuckles on flesh.

Suddenly Victor halted and looked quizzically at the large painting hanging in a heavy black frame on the wall. Noticing it for the first time, really looking at it, although he had occupied the room for three nights already, Victor allowed his troubled mind to jettison his thoughts briefly and study the portrait of the Queen Mother. Elizabeth sat demurely in half profile, her nose slightly elevated, a faint expression of annoyance on her face as if… as if she had caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor?

How could you be annoyed, thought Victor? You never have problems. Not problems like I’ve got. I’m just trying to make a living, just doing business, and somebody is killing my runners, blowing up my supply ship. Mi padre! He is going to be mad! Mad won’t begin to describe his mood when he hears about the Ceciliana. He was furious with me when he heard about the disaster on Sandy Cay. The entire Bahamas operation was disrupted for over a month! Victor had been forced to lean heavily on Jerome MacArthur to rebuild the smuggling operation and resume the bi-monthly runs to the coast of Florida.

Lean heavily on MacArthur? That was the advice his father had offered to focus MacArthur’s attention, because MacArthur had been busy mourning the death of his two sons on Sandy Cay and preoccupied with thoughts of revenge. Lean heavily? Oh yes, Victor reflected as he glanced away from the painting and reached for the towel around his waist. His eyes fell on his left leg as he opened the towel briefly to re-cinch the end. He tightened his leg and noted with pleasure the dimple that formed on his quadriceps and the muscle bunches that knotted and bulged under the smooth skin. Involuntarily, he stroked the leg and wondered idly if it was true the Queen didn’t shave her legs. Ugh! The old bag… but his mind jumped back to the night he had leaned heavily on MacArthur.

The fat bastard had been asleep, naked, in the bed of one of his bitches. His enormous brown hulk had been sprawled in drunken repose with ripples…no, waves…of fat circling his grotesque body. His jaw had fallen slack from his face, his large lips were parted, and tendrils of saliva were running between the two dark rinds of flesh like the beginning of a viscous spiderweb. Jesus, how did anybody allow themselves to become so disgusting?

Victor Torres had reached silently with his left hand and clamped firmly on the bitch’s mouth. Then he had plunged the tip of his razor sharp stiletto below her left ear and in a single, swift stroke drawn the deadly instrument across her windpipe, stopping only after he sliced her carotid artery on the opposite side. Her demise was nearly instantaneous and practically soundless. The great blob of Jerome MacArthur, Commodore of the Royal Bahamas Defense Force and partner of Victor Torres in the cocaine smuggling operation headquartered on Sandy Cay, never moved.

That bit of heavy leaning had riveted MacArthur’s attention. Victor nodded once in satisfaction at the memory. So, where was MacArthur now? He must know something about the Ceciliana. He was there last night, too.

Spinning on a heel, Victor materialized in front of Carlos Barnes and seized him by the collar, hauling him to his feet.

Where’s MacArthur? Victor demanded. What’s he know about this?

Carlos Barnes’ eyes popped open wide. His mouth cracked apart but no words formed. Victor detected a shuttering of his narrow shoulders.

MacArthur! he yelled. I want to talk to MacArthur.

You…you can’t, Barnes managed, his voice an octave higher than normal. He’s…

The sentence hung unfinished in the air. Victor supplied the punctuation with a lightening quick, open handed, stinging slap across Carlos’ face.

Never, never, growled the Young Bull evenly through clenched teeth, "tell me ‘you can’t’. I can do anything. Anything I want. And you are here to help me. Comprende?"

Tears misted Carlos Barnes’ eyes. He managed to sneak a trembling hand between Victor’s powerful paws, still clutching his collar, and tentatively rubbed his burning cheek.

No, Victor, Carlos attempted and then quickly amended his response. "Yes, yes, of course. But MacArthur is missing. That’s why you can’t talk to him. Nobody has seen him for twenty-four hours at the Defense Force. He’s disappeared!"

Victor relaxed his iron grip on Carlos’ shirt and turned away from his henchman. MacArthur was missing? Nobody had seen him for a day? Not since he had left Nassau to meet the Ceciliana yesterday and with his million and a half dollars, which now resided under Victor’s bed in a Nike gym bag.

How many explosions were reported? Victor suddenly asked. Did you say two?

Carlos Barnes nodded and squealed. "Yes. There were two. They found a second boat, a small boat, on the bank a mile or so from the Ceciliana, but it was so badly burned that identification of the passengers was impossible. Two bodies were aboard, but I guess they were completely charred."

I’m ruined, thought Victor Torres. The entire Bahamas connection has been destroyed. Maybe the two bodies in the small boat were burned beyond recognition, but Victor Torres knew who they were. Jerome MacArthur and his Captain, Cyphus Lightburne, one and a half million dollars poorer, were now very dead.

* * *

The telephone jangled politely on the polished cherry wood desk standing in a corner of the living room. Victor looked at the black instrument for a long moment and then barked a command at Carlos Barnes. He was not going to answer his own telephone!

Get it, he ordered as his hands went to his forehead in an effort to squeeze back the beginning of his headache.

Carlos hurried toward the demanding ringing, casting a furtive glance at Victor on the way. He paused once at the desk, reached for the receiver, and uttered a timid "hola."

Eyes wide, Carlos nodded quickly twice and replied, "Si, si. Gracias, patron. Via con Dios."

He gingerly returned the receiver to the telephone.

Who was it? Victor asked.

"Su padre." Your father.

He didn’t want to talk to me? Victor asked trying to keep the annoyance from his voice. This could not be good news.

No, Victor, said Carlos slowly. He just gave me a message to give you.

A message?

"Si. A message. You are to return home. Immediately."

~ 2 ~

Saturday, 4:00PM

Casa Torres sat on a densely jungled promontory, four miles from the Pacific Ocean, about eighty miles west of Medellin, Colombia. Access to the sprawling mansion was limited to a single, winding dirt road that had been bulldozed into the eastern slope of the mountains in a series of deliberate, easy to defend, switchbacks.

Once a traveler achieved the top of the mountain, that is, if the person was a resident or a known employee or an expected guest, and therefore had not been shot on sight at one of the several guard posts along the road, they could marvel at the mansion of Angustino Torres as it spread across the mesa in all its stunning splendor.

The humble, rutted mountain road passed through twelve-foot high concrete walls, festooned across the tops with embedded glass shards. The huge inside courtyard was covered with crushed, white shells, marking a stark contrast with the brown approach road outside. Neat rows of rock-bordered flowerbeds ran at the base of the thick walls. Thousands of white and purple orchids hung on long tendrils from pots suspended on steel rods poking out of the surrounding fortifications.

The gigantic house was topped with a bright orange, half-round tile roof. The main entrance was recessed into a large, open-air atrium delineated by stout columns supporting the twin overhangs. A long reflecting pool graced the center of the atrium, and statues of mermaids and bare-breasted women dotted the gardens leading to the massive, carved oak front door. Sombreroed, sword-wielding heroes on horseback paraded in exquisite relief, dashing enemies right and left, row upon row across the terrain of the giant portals.

Tile floors spread across the landscape of the interior of the house, blues and greens and reds, in tasteful patterns and combinations, some sporting the paw prints of the dogs that had strayed across the fields of the drying tiles before they were fully hardened.

The thick interior walls were periodically interrupted by ornamental depressions that housed bright, pounded copper artwork in the shape of a bursting sun, a silhouetted burro, a fish in profile or a fierce warrior mask.

Rich and colorful paintings hung from every available space. Huge originals celebrated the green mountains of Colombia, the blue of the waters that splashed against her Caribbean coast and the tranquil long swells that curled on her Pacific beaches.

To the north end of the house was a magnificent kitchen. Three huge stainless steel commercial refrigerators banked one wall, and two seven burner stoves stood side-by-side on the other. An island of prodigious proportion centered the room. Had it been a table, it could have seated thirty.

The private quarters of Angustino Angus the Bull Torres dominated the west portion of the house. From the sprawling patio which stretched the width of the mansion he could easily see the ever-calm waters of the Pacific. A forty-foot high retaining wall stretched upward from a jutting shelf in the side of the mountain. The top of the wall provided a sitting area around the perimeter of the extensive patio.

Inside the patio, accessed through enormous sliding glass doors, resided Angus Torres’ palatial bedroom, his adjoining closets, his dressing area and extensive bathroom suite, and his magnificent, dark mahogany walled library in the north corner.

It was here that the Young Bull, Victor Torres, now sat, following his hastily arranged flight from Nassau, Bahamas, through Aruba, early that morning.

He sat silently in a lush, burgundy leather chair, his hands obediently in his lap, awaiting the wrath of his father to descend. A cold trickle of sweat rolled from one armpit.

As Angus the Bull stared at his only son, Victor studied his own long fingers tented before him. At the moment, he felt twelve years old instead of his actual thirty. He was dressed in tight black slacks, shiny, black bespoke boots, and a collared black silk shirt. His muscles