Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) John Cunningham (the rosie project TXT) 📖

“Bonjour, Monsieur.” I asked if Monsieur Magras was there.

He held up a finger and walked down the corridor that led to a few small offices and eventually outside to the airport tarmac.

A moment later, the man I’d met on my e-Antiquity yachting boondoggle came down the steps. He wore aviator sunglasses and had the air of confidence I assumed came with being the president of a jewel like St. Barths.

“Can I help you?”

“Monsieur Magras, my name’s Buck Reilly. We met a few years ago—”

“Ah, oui, of course. I should have recognized you, but …” He paused. “Your hair, it is much longer now, no? And you have a plane here at the airport, a Grumman Goose?”

“That’s right—”

“And there is a Widgeon, too,” he said. “Small world.”

“Smaller every day. I saw the Widgeon, but we’re not together.”

When I explained that I was here on behalf of Lou Atlas, Bruno’s face turned serious. As the island’s chief executive, he’d naturally be sensitive about any subject that could reflect poorly on the gendarmes or the government. The dead nephew of an American billionaire was potentially a nasty can of worms to open.

“I am sorry about Jerry,” he said. “But rum and Jet Skis do not mix well.”

“Absolutely. Lou Atlas has no concerns or questions regarding cause of death.”

A small smile bent Bruno’s lips. “Then what can I do for you?”

“My associate and I have crossed paths with a pair of men from the Dominican Republic. We think they may be searching for the Concepcíon.”

“So this is treasure business?”

“Not exactly.” I filled him in on Gisele Atlas, Jerry’s link to Eden Rock, and Remy de Haenen. I also mentioned that we’d been to see Nicole.

“I’m aware of these men,” Bruno said. “We are watching them, to the extent possible.”

“Could they be responsible for Gisele’s beating?”

He pursed his lips. “Are you an investigator, Mr. Reilly?”

“No, but unfortunately this all seems connected.”

“I’ve heard that the Dominicans have been researching Remy and asking about the galleon. I think they are wasting their time—I knew Remy very well, and he never mentioned anything about finding treasure. He was a man of many talents, a risk taker, sometimes even a rule breaker, but he was also a gentlemen and an idealist. One of my heroes, really.”

“I wish I’d met him.”

“We are watching the Dominicans…” He paused. “And the Americans as well.”

I swallowed.

He pointed out the window towards where my plane was tied down on the other side of the runway. I realized he was speaking about the Widgeon. I bit back a smile.

“The owner of that Widgeon, Jack Dodson, was just released from a federal penitentiary in the U.S.,” I said. “I knew him years ago, and from what I can tell his incarceration hasn’t made him any less ruthless.”

He nodded, once. “Good to know, thank you.”

A uniformed ramp agent came and spoke to Bruno. I heard him say something about “la prochaine vol,” the next flight.

“D’accord.” Bruno turned back to me. “Please keep me informed of anything you learn. And be confident that we too are watching these men.” He lowered his aviator sunglasses so I could see into his dark eyes. “And forgive me, but please don’t cause any trouble here. If you need help, call the gendarmes.”

With that, Monsieur Magras walked straight out onto the tarmac, placed both hands on his hips, and looked up into the sky.

We walked away from the counter.

“Now what?” Truck said.

“Good question.” I sat on one of the benches that faced back inside the open terminal. “I guess we could go back to Lou’s list—”

A broad, heavily muscled man entered from the car rental area—a familiar face I’d hoped never to see again.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Chuck Reilly.” The man wore black jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and the same blue mirrored sunglasses he’d had on the last time I saw him.

“Richard Rostenkowski.” My stomach flip-flopped. “Or do you still go by Gunner?”

“Once a gunner, always a gunner, Reilly.” He glanced at Truck, then looked him up and down.

A spark lit in my brain launched me to my feet.

“How’d you get out of Cuba?”

Gunner exposed his little square teeth.

“You mean after you double-crossed me? Left me there in the hands of the Cuban Secret Police?” He laughed. “As a matter of fact, it’s a secret. The U.S. government even made me sign a confidentiality agreement, punishable by incarceration if I tell anyone.” His smile grew wider. “But I been waiting for this, just to see the look on your face.”

A moment dragged out. I felt sweat drip down my back.

“It was a political trade,” he finally said.

“Political?”

“Me for Manny Gutierrez.”

“What?! Why would they trade him for you? You’re nothing but a mercenary—Gutierrez was a murderer and a spy!” I’d exposed the former Key West art dealer as that, and more, and we’d nearly killed each other in the process.

“Mercenary’s right. I spent a lot of years working for Uncle Sam in the Middle East. Consequently, I got a lot of secrets they didn’t want the public or the Cuban government to find out about.” He pointed to his head.

The pieces came together, but I couldn’t believe what the puzzle revealed. I swallowed.

“How’d you get back to the States?”

His lips peeled back so far I could see his gums.

“That’s the best part. You seen my plane out there next to yours? Pretty, ain’t she? Looks a lot better than how you left her on that Cuban beach—”

Betty!

“Got me a partner who’s a pilot too. One who’s as hungry as I am.”

“Jack Dodson the ex-con,” I said.

“Very good, Reilly. Now here’s the best part—the Cubans are backing us. Ain’t that some shit?” He laughed again, then his face turned serious. “Jack was damned unhappy to see your plane here on St. Barths. Said you ignored his warning.”

A hot flash washed over me.

“We heard you was here sucking Lou Atlas’s tit, but do yourself a favor and stay