Sins in the Sun: A Vigilante Series crime thriller Page 11

  “Everything is under control,” he informed Luis who seemed to be wavering where he stood. Pointing to some nearby crates, Ortega added, “You don’t look well. I suggest you have a seat.”

  Without responding, Luis plodded the short distance across the floor and settled heavily upon the crates. At the same moment, a back door leading outside opened and Officer Pabon, who had been minding the rear gate, entered carrying a sledgehammer.

  “Over here,” Ortega called. “We need to get into this seldom used room with a shiny, new lock and, unfortunately, nobody seems to have the key.”

  Pabon raised the sledgehammer as he approached and said, “Stand back, sir. I have a key.”

  Reaching the door, he positioned himself, lined up the heavy hammer, brought it back then swung it forward, catching the lock dead-on. A shower of splinters flew into the air as the frame exploded and the door crashed inward.

  “The door is open, sir,” announced Pabon. “Do you need anything else?”

  Ortega peered inside the room, noting the impressive number of boxes and crates stored within and replied, “Help our friend, Luis, in here. I want to make sure he remains close by. Then you can help me find out what all that stuff in here is.”

  Pabon went to the now trembling, sweat-drenched Luis and urged him to his feet then held the man by one arm as he stumbled toward the room. They paused for a moment while Luis vomited before continuing on inside where Pabon swung the manager into a chair in the corner.

  “I don’t believe he is going anywhere, sir,” said Pabon. “He seems rather ill.”

  “Perhaps something he ate,” Ortega replied with a shrug. “Let’s see what all this is.”

  “I can start with those crates,” Pabon suggested as he pulled a short crowbar from his equipment belt.

  “Very well,” replied Ortega with approval, locking the blade of a folding knife open. “I will start with these boxes.”

  The two officers got busy and almost immediately, Pabon gasped. “Sir, you need to see this.”

  Ortega hurried over and gazed into the crate Pabon had just opened. Reaching inside, he pulled out two of several brick-like bundles of what was no doubt cocaine and turned toward Luis.

  “This is what you call old furniture, my friend?” he sneered. “I’m afraid your days in the resort business are over, but don’t worry, we have plans for your future.”

  Chapter 12 – Friday, December 19, 2014

  18.1302°, -68.968°, aboard the Lady Delilah, Caribbean Sea, 3:06 a.m.

  “A rather impressive coincidence but our timing is perfect,” Captain Reynolds commented, pointing at the Dominican patrol boat coming toward them from the opposite direction. “I was certain one boat or the other would end up waiting for several hours.”

  “It must be that karma thing,” said Chris, glancing at his watch. “We’re pretty much on schedule too.”

  “And we shouldn’t be here very long either,” Reynolds replied. “Everything is ready in the garage portside.”

  “I saw that,” said Chris. “I was down there a little while ago making sure our friends were all set.”

  Reynolds grinned. “Anxious to get rid of them?”

  “There is that,” Chris admitted, “Though I’m sure the Admiral is even more anxious to get a hold of them.”

  “It won’t be long now,” said Reynolds, turning down the engines before reaching for the radio. “I’ll contact the Altair to get things lined up. Once we’re done, La Romana is only twenty miles north from here so I’ll have you there in less than two hours.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Harvey,” said Chris. “Thank you.”

  “This was fun,” replied the captain. “I hope I get to do some more spy stuff with you, or whatever the hell it is you do.”

  “We like to think of it as making the world a better place,” said Chris. “I’ll head down now. A proper host should always see his guests off.”

  From inside the tender garage, Chris and his team watched the twenty-two foot motor boat as it gently swayed over the water, still suspended from the overhead gantry crane protruding through the open upswing side door. Still unconscious, as they would be for another couple of hours, Pedro Gomez and Hector lay on flimsy, soiled bunk mats on the deck.

  Besides finding him an appropriate super yacht, Chris had tasked Sheila Bahmer with obtaining a smaller boat, an element required for the execution of his plan. The boat, he had explained, needed to fit on whatever yacht they would be using and had to be relatively seaworthy with a working engine. However, since it would be basically disposed of, he hoped for something as inexpensive as possible as well as not readily traceable.

  Sheila had come through with a battered, ill-maintained 1993 Proline 220 Cuddy Fish which had been abandoned at an acquaintance’s marina several years earlier. Though the boat’s overall condition could be described as ripped, damaged, scuffed, soiled, cracked and moldy, it still floated, the engine ran and the price tag had only been two thousand dollars.

  The lead deckhand, operating the crane, activated a switch and the boat slowly descended to the water’s surface. A second deckhand, aboard the motorboat, quickly wound lines both fore and aft to mooring cleats on the yacht then unhooked the crane cables before hopping back into the garage as the crane booms began to retract.

  Some twenty yards away, a rigid-hulled inflatable raft was being lowered down the patrol boat’s hydraulic launch ramp with three men onboard. As soon as the cable released, the small vessel cast off, backing away from the patrol boat as it veered then surging forth toward the yacht’s tender garage.

  Within a minute, the raft had crossed the short distance separating the two ships and pulled alongside the motorboat. The young man at the nose of the raft steadied their craft by gripping the motorboat’s railing while the man in the centre, a senior officer, climbed over the gunwale onto the boat’s deck. The first man deftly followed and the raft immediately pulled away to return to the Coast Guard vessel.

  Aboard the motorboat, the senior officer, a husky man of sixty or so, gazed down at Gomez for a long moment in silence before looking up at Chris and the others.

  “It would be so easy, and pleasurable, to simply throw him overboard and be done with him,” he said. “But my satisfaction would not last and I would then regret him not having suffered for the rest of my life.”

  Chris nodded in understanding and said, “Your decision is a sound one. Admiral Quesada, I presume. Chris Barry at your service.”

  Quesada climbed deftly into the garage and extended his hand. “My friends call me Ramon. It is a pleasure to meet you, Chris, and I thank you for the incredible lengths you and your group have gone to help rid us of this, this terrible, despicable man.”

  “He badly hurt a man and caused him serious grief,” Chris replied, still gripping the admiral’s hand. “Unfortunately for Gomez, the man in question is my friend.”

  “Give my regards to your friend,” said Quesada, “And let him know Gomez will pay dearly for all the pain he has caused throughout his sorry life.”

  With a nod and salute to Chris and his team, Quesada climbed back into the motorboat and untied the aft mooring line while one of the yacht’s deckhands tended to the other. The admiral’s subordinate fired up the engine and the boat slipped away. As the tender garage’s door began to close and the yacht began to move forward, men could be seen carrying and stacking crates by the gunwale on the rear deck of the Coast Guard patrol boat.

  * * * *

  18.1419°, -69.0484°, Caribbean Sea, 5:02 a.m.

  Pedro Gomez moaned as his brain battled its way out of the alcohol and drug-induced sleep. Slowly, he became aware of various bits of information of which he had been oblivious moments before. His roiling stomach came to mind as a wave of nausea washed over him. Drinking, he remembered, much, too much drinking. The wave passed and his mind moved on, fixating on the incessant movement of the world around him. On a boat, of course; he was on a boat and the sea must be agitated.
Yet, he had not noticed this extreme movement earlier, the constant rocking and rising and falling.

  As further consciousness replaced fog, he noticed the discomfort resulting from his posture. What position was he lying in? The side of his face pressed into his hands which seemed to be gripping something solid, a curved rod of sorts. He also realized he felt the wind on his face and the occasional spray of the sea. As he tried to make sense of the confusion, he realized he could hear the splashing of waves, close by, as if he was outside. A steady, chugging rumble captured his attention, large diesel engines or something similar.

  A shout, though the words were unintelligible, urged him to open his eyes, to determine if all was reality or simply a jumbled dream. Raising his head, he paused for a moment to allow a rush of dizziness to subside. Another shout beckoned him and he forced his bleary eyes open.

  Dazed with incomprehension, he stared at his hands which clasped a scuffed stainless steel steering wheel. Rather than lying in bed on the yacht, he was seated at the controls of a small motor boat. Trying to make sense of the inexplicable situation he found himself in, he shook his head, carefully, and raised his eyes to look around. In an instant, he noted it was still dark, he was out at sea… and he was not alone.

  To his right and some fifteen feet ahead of the boat he was in, was a fair-sized inflatable raft of the type often used by naval and military forces. Aboard the raft were four men, clearly navy or coast guard based on their attire and, while one man busied himself with the outboard to keep the vessel steady, the other three held automatic rifles trained on the motor boat.

  Ten yards to his left, the source of the diesel engine rumbles, was a large Coast Guard patrol boat, well over one hundred feet in length. Positioned along the railing at varying intervals was another handful of men, each also similarly armed and aiming at him. The beam of a roaming searchlight affixed to the roof of the pilothouse swept across the water’s surface and came to rest on the motorboat, bathing it and the surrounding area in white light, its brightness forcing him to avert his eyes.

  “Raise your hands in the air,” a voice ordered via a bullhorn. “Do as you are told and you will not be hurt. I repeat, raise your hands in the air. Both of you. Now.”

  Gomez did what he was told and slowly swiveled his seat to face the patrol boat, noticing his semi-conscious bodyguard sprawled in the passenger seat for the first time.

  “Hector,” he barked. “Wake up but remain very still. We appear to have a problem.”

  * * * *

  18.1419°, -69.0484°, aboard the GC-112 Altair, Caribbean Sea, 5:22 a.m.

  The pitch of the three powerful diesel engines increased and the patrol boat began to move forward, soon accelerating to it maximum cruising speed of thirty knots.

  “Admiral, the prisoners are ready if you wish to see them,” announced an ensign.

  “Excellent,” Quesada replied, quickly rising to follow the junior officer out of the pilothouse.

  They made their way to the crew quarters where Gomez and Hector had been sequestered to a cabin, handcuffed to the iron bunks.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Quesada as he entered the cabin.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Gomez, clearly fully revived. “Where are we? What is going on?”

  “My, you’re full of questions, Pedro,” the admiral replied, “But I’ll be happy to fill you in. We’re onboard the Altair, one of my Coast Guard patrol boats. We’re currently about twenty miles west of Isla Saona, twenty miles south-southwest of La Romana and on our way to back to the naval base in Santo Domingo.”

  “What are we doing here?” Gomez shouted. “Why are we handcuffed like prisoners?”

  “I will not accept you yelling at me, Pedro,” Quesada scolded, pausing for a moment before continuing. “You apparently had too much to drink last night, which is not only obvious from your smell but also from your lack of memory.”

  “Answer my question,” Gomez growled.

  “I am getting to that,” said Quesada. “We were on a routine night patrol. You may not be aware but I make it a point to regularly accompany my men out at sea. It is the best way to keep my finger on the pulse. Anyhow, we were on patrol and as we got closer to Isla Saona, your boat was spotted. You had no lights, you were simply drifting and it was still night so we approached to investigate. We found you and your friend sleeping and what we believed to be suspicious cargo on board. You woke shortly after and now you are here. I should thank you for being cooperative although failure to do so could have resulted in dire consequences.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Gomez snapped. “I have no idea how we ended up on that boat. I’ve never seen it in my life. Hector and I were guests on a yacht and, I’ll admit, we did have quite a bit to drink so we went to bed to sleep it off. When we woke up we were on that boat being held at gunpoint by your men.”

  Quesada laughed. “Pedro, you don’t really expect me to believe a story this lame. Come now. I may not be as bright a man as you are but it gives you no right to insult what little intelligence I have.”

  “I am telling you the truth,” Gomez exploded in rage. “We were on a yacht, a super yacht, the Lady Delilah. We were guests on this boat and were cruising from Aruba to Puerto Plata.” A thought came to mind and he added, “You can even confirm what I am telling you with your own records. Yesterday afternoon, around two-thirty, one of your patrol boats stopped the Lady Delilah for an inspection. When its commander saw my passport, he had the yacht searched and delayed us for nearly two hours.”

  “Where was this?” asked Quesada.

  “East of Isla Saona,” Gomez replied. “I remember being told we were not too far from Punta Cana.”

  Quesada shrugged. “Perhaps you are telling me the truth. I will have this verified and will be back shortly. However, there will still be some questions to be answered when I return.”

  Five minutes later, having passed the time smoking a borrowed cigarette since he had kicked the habit years before, Quesada returned to the prisoners’ cabin.

  “So, did you confirm what I told you about the inspection?” asked Gomez, his tone taunting.

  “I verified it,” replied Quesada, looking grim, “But it was not confirmed. No report of any such inspection is on record.”

  “What?” Gomez exclaimed in shock. “Maybe the report hasn’t been filed yet.”

  “All activity reports for all ships have been filed,” said Quesada. “I made the point of asking. I also requested a verification of patrol logs and none of our ships were in the area at the time you mentioned.”

  “I’m telling you it happened,” Gomez insisted, growing exasperated. “Hector was there too.”

  Hector nodded dumbly, still dazed by the events.

  “You can tell me what you want,” Quesada replied, “And, of course, Hector will agree with you. However, nothing supports what you are saying and I see it as a feeble attempt to somehow try to get out of the trouble you are in.”

  “What trouble am I in, Quesada?” Gomez demanded. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m up to nothing, Pedro,” said the admiral. “However, I should inform you my men have opened several of the crates you were transporting on your little boat. It’s clear you were attempting to bring a sizeable quantity of cocaine into the country. As I’m certain you are aware, that is a very serious offence.”

  “That’s crazy,” Gomez roared. “This is a set up. You can’t prove anything and you will never make this stick. It’s your word against mine.”

  Quesada smiled. “It’s your word against mine and that of thirteen of my men who were involved in your capture. Your prints, as well as Hector’s, will be found on those crates as well as on some of the packs of cocaine inside. Your denials and ludicrous stories cannot save you. You are going to prison, Pedro. You will finally pay for all the atrocious things you have done or, should I say, ordered others to do. We will now see if a coward like you can survive without your band of thugs to protect you.
”

  “You will never win this,” Gomez hissed. “Your plan will fail and then you will pay for your stupidity, over and over. Your precious Hugo will soon have family to keep him company.”

  Already winding up as he lunged forward, Quesada drove his beefy fist into Gomez’s face. Three more solid blows followed with Gomez unable to block them or defend himself, his arms helplessly restrained to the bedframe.

  Breathing heavily, not due to effort but rather, rage, Quesada stepped back and stared at Gomez with fire in his eyes.

  “That is only the beginning of your suffering,” he said, his tone laced with venom. “I could kill you right now and make this world a better place, but I would rather you suffer for what hopefully will seem like an eternity.”

  Gomez grinned, his bloodied face looking grotesquely comical with a now swollen eye seeming like a perpetual wink. “Perhaps you should kill me now, almirante. Do you not realize how rich and connected I am in our lovely country? Do you not know how many of our prosecutors, judges and other men of power are friends and clients of mine? I promise, you will be the one to regret.”

  “Not this time, Pedro,” said Quesada. “You have spent your life preying on and manipulating the innocent and the weak and now believe you are invincible. But you are wrong. You underestimated your last victim, a man who turned out to have powerful friends, and you now must deal with their retaliation. Trust me when I say you are going to prison for cocaine trafficking. Not only have we caught you with hundreds of pounds here at sea. Similar quantities have been seized during a raid at your Paraíso whorehouse in Puerto Plata. Police and military personnel will be descending on all your establishments in the coming hours. You are finished.”

  * * * *

  Ventura Grande Resort, Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, 7:25 p.m.