A Distant Shore Karen Kingsbury (fantasy books to read .TXT) 📖

Thomas Ellington III doing, anyway? It had been far too long since the senior Henry had been to the Palace. Surely his son had told him about his beautiful bride, and that the deal between the families was definitely on. Anders almost would’ve expected a call or a text from the young man’s father. Some sort of connection or celebratory moment.

Anders had time, so without giving the matter another thought, he found Henry the Third in his contacts and tapped the number.

A chat with the man would be good for his soul. Henry and Anders. Just a couple of like-minded businessmen whose collective business was about to multiply threefold. At least. The phone rang. Then it rang again. Another time, and another. Henry didn’t always pick up right away.

But as the phone rang and rang, a strange feeling began to work its way through Anders’s gut. In the recent past—when this deal was being worked out—Henry’s voice mail would pick up. But by the seventh ring, Anders knew something was wrong. Henry wouldn’t change his cell number.

Anders set his drink down. In a few clicks he was calling Henry’s law firm. After a few seconds, a serious-sounding woman answered. “Ellington, Benson, and Farmer, how can I help you?”

He exhaled. Everything was fine. Henry must’ve just been out of service or lost his phone. Anders cleared his throat. “Henry Ellington the Third, please.”

On the other end, the woman went silent. Anders counted the seconds, and it wasn’t until five had passed that she spoke. “I’m sorry… who is this?”

Anders thought fast. “Mark Lewis from Rhode Island. A friend of Henry’s. He didn’t answer his cell phone.”

“Oh.” The woman paused again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis. I hate to have to tell you this. Mr. Ellington passed away two days ago.”

The floor felt like it was falling away, like the room might cave in on top of him. “Oh, my.” Anders had no choice but to recover. “That is terrible news. I should’ve reached out sooner.”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

Anders’s mind raced. “What about Henry’s son. Henry, the Fourth. I assume he’ll be taking over for his father.”

“Uh…” The woman sounded uncomfortable. “No, sir. Young Henry… he doesn’t work here.”

“I always thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps. Like father… like son.”

“No. I’m afraid not.” Another pause. “Did you want to leave a message for one of the partners? In lieu of flowers, donations are being sent to Henry’s favorite—”

Anders hung up.

He stood and bumped the table near the sofa, sending his drink crashing to the wood floor. The glass broke and Anders stared at the mess. Then slowly he lifted his eyes to the water. If Henry Thomas Ellington IV hadn’t taken over his father’s firm, then the two must’ve had a falling-out. In which case the son would’ve been cut off from his wealthy father. He certainly wouldn’t be here, traipsing around Belize City, chumming it up at the Blue Breeze and about to marry Anders’s only daughter.

His hands clenched and he narrowed his eyes. What had he just stumbled onto?

The young man was coming back tonight to see Eliza. But Henry Thomas would have a surprise waiting when he got here. Anders imagined the look on the man’s handsome face when he realized later tonight that he’d been caught. The guards would have fun with him and then dump his body in the river.

With weights around it.

“Helen!” Anders yelled. Almost immediately one of the housemaids appeared at the door. Anders waved his hand at the mess on the floor. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “Clean it up. Hurry.”

Anders retreated to his private balcony. Calm, he told himself. Breathe. He had found out the truth before it was too late. Wherever the man had come from and whatever business he had here in Belize, he was about to learn a very important lesson.

Don’t lie to Anders McMillan.

JACK COULDN’T SEE it, but the ship was there.

Five miles off the coast of Belize, the USS Tripoli, an amphibious assault vessel that had been quietly patrolling the Caribbean Sea, was now ready for action. The Tripoli could house up to a thousand sailors, depending on the mission. But it specialized in Army helicopter support, mainly for busting up significant drug cartels and international sex-trafficking rings.

Like the one Anders McMillan was running.

Afternoon sunshine streamed across the Belizean shoreline as Jack took his spot on his balcony. Just another day in paradise as far as Anders and his men would be concerned. They didn’t expect anything. Jack felt sure of it. From his hotel balcony, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Same way Anders’s men wouldn’t.

The raid was in three hours.

Like before every mission, Jack would take the day to think through the details, seeing the events play out in his mind until they were so clear he wasn’t only going through the motions. He was living them.

Sunset tonight was at six thirty-one, and an hour after that the sky would be dark. Raids often took place on the darkest nights, and this would be no exception. Tomorrow was a new moon, so tonight just the faintest sliver of light would hang in the sky.

The USS Tripoli would begin their part of the mission at seven forty sharp. That’s when a pilot and two gunners from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment would lift off in a Black Hawk helicopter and fly it to the spot just over the rooftop of the Palace. The 160th regiment was a famous group, also known as the Night Stalkers.

Some people thought the Night Stalkers team was a thing of fiction, showing up only in action movies. That wasn’t true. These were the Army’s most elite pilots, able to fly under the cover of night and carry out some of the military’s most dangerous missions. The purpose of the Night Stalkers was to serve the nation’s elite military units—even if it cost them their lives. One of the division’s most famous raids was against Osama