Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) John Cunningham (psychology books to read TXT) 📖

“Yeah, about five times. ‘Double rum and Coke.’”

I peeled a ten out of my money clip and dropped it on the bar. I was about to walk off but stopped. Given his last wise-ass answer, the question was probably a waste, but you never know.

“One other thing.” Head turned to the side, he glanced at me with one eye. “You know how to get in touch with Diego Francis?”

I heard the glass he was holding drop to the floor and shatter.

On the other side of the bar, two burly black guys looked up.

“You got business with Diego?” the bartender said. “Or you just crazy?”

I finally had his attention.

“Little of both, I guess.” He set another beer on the counter and leaned toward me. “That’s not a name I’d be throwing around town, know what I mean?”

I held my palms up.

“I’m just trying to—”

“Help your friend, yeah, I get it, but that’s not a good rock to turn over.” He delivered this last part in a whisper.

Next thing I knew, one of the black guys was on the stool next to me. His friend’s eyes drilled mine from the other side of the bar where they’d both been sitting.

“I hear you mention Diego Francis?” he said.

I leaned back and glanced at him. Dreadlocks, tattoos on dark skin, pupils dilated, T-shirt taut over a muscular frame.

I swallowed. Here goes.

“Yeah, you know where I can find him?”

The bartender walked to the far end of the bar and kept his back to us.

“What you want with him, man?” the black guy said.

I held out my hand.

“I’m Buck Reilly.” The man stared at me, ignoring the hand hovering in space between us. I held his stare and didn’t flinch, then took back my hand. “I’m looking for somebody. Thought Diego might be able to help me find him.”

I glanced over at his friend on the other side of the bar, whose eyes were still laser-focused on me.

I turned back to—

WHAP!

Excruciating pain on my cheek! Before I could react, another vicious blow.

Then everything turned black.

IGRADUALLY BOUNCED AWAKE, only to realize I was in the trunk of a car that was traveling along a bumpy road. My hands weren’t constrained, so I felt my face and winced—my jaw was sore to the touch. Damn. In the over thirty Golden Glove bouts I’d fought some dozen years ago, I’d never once been knocked out.

The car swerved. We seemed to hit every pothole the driver could find. Loud music drowned out conversation, if there was any. Had they been hanging out at the Beach Bar to see if anyone came asking about John Thedford? Or did Diego have lookouts all over town? Were they taking me to see him now, or were we headed to the far end of the island where they’d make me disappear? Hell, I only asked to speak with the guy.

I felt around the inside of the pitch-black trunk hoping to find a tire iron, bottle, anything I could surprise them with, but came up empty. The smell of sweat and maybe piss told me this wasn’t their first grab and go.

As we continued to bounce along for another few minutes I wondered how Crystal was faring at Jost Van Dyke. Had there been a mass celebrity exodus? Had the police found any leads in either missing persons case? Crap—what if she’d been grabbed too?

The music stopped, then the car, and in seconds the trunk popped open. I shielded my face from the blinding sun as strong hands gripped my arms. I knew better than to struggle. Yet.

Jerked up and out of the trunk in one swift motion, I landed on my feet in front of my two assailants. The dreadlocked man who hadn’t punched me held a small pistol aimed at my chest.

“Listen, fellas, I wasn’t looking for trouble—”

“Shut your face, fool, or I’ll give you another one of these.” The man who had knocked me out held up his fist, along with a pair of brass knuckles that explained why my jaw hurt so much.

I held my hands up, slowly.

“It’s cool, man.”

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” A voice came from up a path bordered with tropical flowers. I glanced around. The property had lush grounds, and I could just see the corner of what appeared to be a large stately home through the palm trees. I also spotted a tall fence topped with razor wire and men dressed in camouflage along the perimeter.

The source of the voice appeared: A dark-skinned man in black linen pants and a tropical print shirt that would make Ray Floyd drool. About my age but several inches shorter and of medium build. As nice as the clothes were, he had a rough-hewn face scarred from fire or severe acne. And he was smiling—which threw me, because it seemed sincere and yet there was kind of a sneer tucked away in it.

He turned to the guy who’d cold-cocked me and held his hand up for a high-five. Brass Knuckles slapped his hand and grinned.

“Diego Francis,” he said. “Always happy to meet a pilot—especially when business is hot.”

“Buck Reilly.”

Diego extended his hand. I felt like I’d landed down the rabbit hole, but I shook it off.

“Saw you on TV in St. Thomas. You was with that lady here for the Adoption AID concert. The one whose husband’s gone missing.”

I swallowed. Diego smiled.

“Yeah, that was me—”

“I know, bro. In fact, I know all about you.” His face either had a permanent smile or was deformed by whatever caused his scars. “When I saw you with that honey I knew you’d come to St. John. Knew you’d sniff around at the Beach Bar, too.”

Dreadlocks laughed.

“Last Resort Charters?” Diego said.

“And Salvage,” I said.

“And treasure hunter before that. Yeah, bro, I know all about you, even when you got arrested on Tortola.” He paused to get that smile back on his face. “But that ain’t what interests me most.”

“I expect you know I’m here