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

again until I saw stars. A clunk! The table fell over—but the damn phone fell away from me.

The sound of a dial tone lasted a long time.

When I finally heard a voice, I cried for help through the partially torn tape, my entire body convulsing with effort. Then I was silent. There was no more sound coming from the phone. Minutes dragged out.

Suddenly the room filled with light. Jean, the proprietor, his mouth agape and his face sheet white, had flipped the switch. He soon had my ankles and wrists free. I jumped to my feet—woozy—and rushed into the next room.

“Truck!”

My hand shot to my mouth. His face was swollen and bloody, his wrists and ankles tied to the bed frame. I pulled the tape off his mouth, then fumbled with the knots—one hand freed, then the other.

Truck groaned, his eyes swollen shut.

My heart raced. His face had been savaged and there were bruises on his arms, but what really worried me was his right arm bent at an awkward angle. He only groaned in response to my questions. I held a bottle of water up to his puffy lips and he struggled to drink, gagging and choking.

One eye cracked open. “My shoulder—feels busted. And my ribs …”

“What happened?” Jean said. “Who did this?”

“They came in the room—” Truck coughed—“I thought it was you. Next thing I know … they cold-cocked me.” More coughing and a serious wince. “Dammit!”

Jean glanced around the room. They’d opened everything, torn every cushion, removed every drawer.

“What were they looking for?”

“Him, mostly,” Truck said.

Jean stood next to me, his face pale, his hand over his mouth.

“We need an ambulance,” I said.

Truck cracked his left eye open. “I look that bad?”

My face ached, but I tried to smile.

“Like you just went ten rounds with Bruiser.”

Before long, the sound of a siren broke the silence. Once the ambulance arrived, Truck was quickly loaded on board and I rode with him in the back. As we drove at high speed toward the hospital, siren wailing, I clenched my fists. Jack’s threat to rat me out to the FBI had been bad enough, but these guys had crossed an entirely different line.

And paybacks are hell.

I walked outside the hospital, tired of talking in circles with Commander Grivet of the gendarmes and Truck’s doctor—the same one who’d attended Gisele. Both of them made it pretty clear they thought the whole mess was our own fault— we should have kept our noses out of local affairs. The fact that the men who assaulted us were Dominican seemed not to matter to them.

Truck had a broken collarbone, and while his face looked like hamburger, his skull and cheekbones were intact. A morphine drip had him loopy, and the doctor said they’d need to hold him for observation. My face felt far worse than it looked, having only taken a few punches.

Guilt over Truck ate at my already churning stomach. The so-called missing person case had spun out of control, the shit storm that followed Jerry’s death carving a wider swath each day.

I pulled the phone from my pocket and called one of the few numbers stored in its contact list. Several rings passed while I rehearsed the message I’d leave.

A voice clicked on.

“Starting to wonder about you, Treasure Hunter.”

“And I’m starting to wonder about you, Lou.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

“My friend, Truck Lewis, was beaten viciously and hospitalized today. Did you know there were multiple groups here on the hunt for treasure—treasure they seem to think your nephew either had or knew about?”

A brief silence was followed by a cackle.

“Treasure? How-n-the-hell would my drunken nephew have anything to do with treasure?”

“What do you know about Remy de Haenen?” I said.

“What? Why’re you asking me questions? You work for me—”

“If you want answers, I need background.”

Silence filled my ear. I waited—after all, I had nothing but time.

“I met the old bastard back when I first went to St. Barths. He was top dog back then. Arrogant, even though he was only half French, but greedy, too, so he wanted to meet me.” He paused.

“And?”

“And what? I told him he was a piece of shit tinhorn dictator ‘cause he tried to strong-arm me into providing money for his development plan he had. To build a resort.”

From my vantage point at the front of the hospital, I watched a fishing boat putter through the harbor.

“You’re talking about Eden Rock hotel?”

“Well done, Reilly. Harry was right about you. The old man wanted an investor to help him triple the hotel in size. I said no, he got pissy, I told him he was a piece of shit again and left.”

I swallowed. “How long after that did he sell it to Jerry?”

“You been busy, haven’t you? Few months is all. He couldn’t raise the cash, so he found himself a patsy. Got Jerry ginned-up thinking he could show me he was worthy of the trust fund by developing the top resort in St. Barths. Course, Jerry’d never built so much as a tree house, and since he knew me and de Haenen had been negotiating over the property, he thought buying it was a real coup. Damned idiot didn’t know he’d paid a multiple of what it was worth.”

Church bells rang from the center of Gustavia.

“Then what happened?”

“Jerry came to me for money when the market went down the shitter and he lost his ass on World Com and a few other dot-bombs. I refused to advance him any funds. So, like every investor needs to do it, he learned his lesson the hard way. Dumbass should have left town with his tail between his legs, but he went and fell in love and decided to stay.”

“Which is when he turned into a lush—”

“Jerry was always a lush, he just got serious about it after that. Don’t pin his weakness on me.”

“But you kept sending the money anyway?”

“My sister was