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

“Tired. And my head is throbbing. I should go to bed.”

I got up from my chair, and to my surprise she did too.

“Come, I will walk you out.”

I followed her back into the house and realized she was taller than I’d thought—I’d never seen her standing.

She stopped and pointed to the wall.

“Jerry’s paintings. He liked Mondrian and Rothko.”

The paintings were different sizes and colors, a combination of crude circles and squares.

Once outside, the man with the baseball bat reappeared.

“Nice to speak with you, Buck,” Gisele said. “And thanks for your concern, but I’ll be safe.”

“Do you mind if I call again, if I have any other questions?”

She held her palms up and nodded.

I decided I’d been right to not bring up the prenuptial agreement.

I drove to the end of the road in Flamands, to where the goat trail leads out to the beach at Colombier maybe a half-mile away. It reminded me of Ushuaia, the city at the tip of Argentina, at the end of the world. I would have loved to take the hike out as I’d done years ago, but a sense of urgency was festering in my gut that had me uneasy. The more I learned about Jerry, the less comfortable I felt.

Something important was missing.

Or I was missing something important.

I’d kept Truck waiting long enough, so I made my way back up from Flamands, down around the airport and St. Jean, and into Lorient. I saw Truck’s lady friends lounging by the pool and one gave me a languid wave.

I opened the door to our suite, surprised to see it was still dark inside. I tripped over something, caught myself, and paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I ran my palm up the wall until the light switch clicked on—

The room was trashed. Furniture turned over, clothes strewn all over the place—

I heard a groan.

I jumped over debris, including our open suitcases whose contents were thrown on the floor, and took a couple of steps towards Truck’s room—

Whoa! Two large men stood beside the bed—next to Truck, who was tied up, his mouth taped over. There was blood on his face and the sheets.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Buck Reilly,” the man on the left said. He had a thick Spanish accent, dark hair, and was holding a shotgun. The other one looked the same, but had a knife in his belt, and a small club in his hand. There was blood on the club. Both men were muscular and both wore gloves.

The Dominicans.

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

“We want information, Reilly. Your friend has not been cooperative—”

“Because he doesn’t know anything!”

The one with the shotgun smiled. “Tell us what you’ve learned.”

The other man smashed the club into Truck’s shoulder—even tied to the bed and gagged, he shook wildly and howled.

“Stop! I’m telling you—there’s no treasure!”

“Then why are you here? Jerry Atlas is dead—and why would his uncle send a world famous treasure hunter to investigate a drowned drunk?” White spittle caked in the corners of his mouth as he hissed at me in a low voice. “Now tell us what you’ve learned!”

The other man raised the club. Truck pressed his eyes shut.

“Stop! Look, I’ll tell you—there’s not much—but back off.”

The man on the right held the club aloft.

“Jerry went broke and sold the hotel at a loss—”

“We know all about that. Why bother fixing up an old building when you found a fortune in gold?”

“He’d burned though all his trust fund money and had nothing left! He couldn’t even pay the guy helping him, Henri Antoine. Talk to him, he was with Jerry during construction. We saw him yesterday—he says they found nothing. He has a big company now, Antoine Construction.”

The Dominicans glanced at each other.

“What else?”

“Neither his attorney or banker know anything about treasure.” I paused. “You do realize Jack Dodson is here too? He’s also found nothing!”

“What did you learn at the Eden Rock? Or from Nicole de Haenen?”

“I just looked at old pictures, before and after Jerry owned the property. He left it a wreck—and there were construction receipts from Antoine. Go see him, if anyone knows something, it’s him!”

They glanced at each other again.

“Sit in that chair.”

I hesitated. One pointed the shotgun at me while the other one pulled the knife from his belt and pressed it against Truck’s neck.

I sat down in the wood chair by the coffee table.

“Sorry, Truck,” I said.

Shotgun picked some rope up off the floor and tied my hands and feet to the arms and legs of the chair, then wrapped my head indelicately in duct tape, covering my mouth. I didn’t struggle, just wanted them out of here.

He pulled his arm back—I tried to dodge, but his fist hit me in the side of the jaw. My ears rang.

As my eyes fluttered, another blow caught me on the other side of my head. I slumped forward semi-conscious, their remaining movements a hurried blur. There was a flash of light as the door opened, then back to the dim glow of the room. Gray shadows drifted through my consciousness. I heard groaning—the sound made me shake my head, which hurt.

Suddenly back in the moment, I sucked in air.

Truck!

From what I could see there was no movement on the bed. I fought against my bonds, but the ropes were taut and the chair sturdy. I rubbed my cheek against the top of the chair until the tape peeled up and the corner of my mouth was clear.

“Help!” But it was a muffled plea at best.

I glanced wildly around and spotted the phone on a table ten feet away. I threw my weight from side to side until the chair fell to the ground. After several minutes of pushing my feet against the wall and tile floor, elbowing the coffee table, and digging my nails into the grout between tiles, I was close enough to head-butt the side table.

I reared back my forehead, hit it again and