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

With the Jeep returned to the car rental agency at the airport, we hailed a taxi the next morning to drive us around to the private aviation lot on the other side of the airport. Truck climbed inside while I loaded our gear.

“Sucks that we’re leaving Jerry to all them vultures.” Truck said.

“This is his island, we don’t have—”

“Buck Reilly!” The shout came from inside the open terminal behind me.

I glanced back and was surprised to see Bruno Magras, CEO of the St. Barth Commuter airline and president of St. Barths, waving me inside.

“The hell’s he want?” Truck said.

I rushed up the steps and met Bruno in front of the St. Barth Commuter check-in counter. His arms were crossed and he glanced back over his shoulder to where the sound of a plane could be heard through an open door.

“Jerry Atlas has been looking for you—some kind of emergency,” Bruno said. “He called from the hospital—nice job, by the way—and pleaded with me to see if your plane was still here.”

“He didn’t say what the problem was?”

“Only that he needed your help—immediately.”

I thanked Bruno, who gave me the number for the hospital and the news that the Widgeon had been back on St. Barths briefly but was gone again. He also reported that according to the gendarmes, the Dominicans had simply vanished.

On the way to a taxi, I called the hospital, asked for Jerry Atlas, and was transferred straight to his room.

“Hello—who is this?” Jerry said.

“Buck Reilly. What’s up?” We climbed inside the taxi.

His voice was muffled. I thought he’d dropped the phone, then realized he was hysterical.

“You gotta … come get me, man! I need your help! Please, Buck, right now!”

“Whoa, Jerry, we’re on our way out—”

“You can’t leave—I need your help!”

“What’s happened?”

Truck’s head snapped toward me. The driver pulled out of the airport and was climbing the hill toward the traffic circle where we’d take a quick right back down to the private aviation area.

“Can you come to the hospital, now? I can’t talk about it on the phone.”

To Truck’s surprise I redirected the taxi to the hospital, where we snuck back to Jerry’s room. As soon as he saw us, Jerry climbed out of bed and started to pull on his IV.

“Hold on—” I grabbed his arm. “What’s happening, Jerry?”

He rubbed his shaking hands over his face, snorting back tears.

“I—we’ve got to get back out to the Kid, ASAP—”

“Why now?”

“They’ve got Gisele!”

“What? Who?”

“They want the gold—just like you said—they have Nicole de Haenen, too—they’ll kill them both if I don’t give them the gold!”

My stomach twisted into a hard knot.

“Nicole?”

“Oh shit,” Truck said.

“Bernie has a boat ready—”

“My plane—”

“Will take too long. The boat’s at Master Ski Pilou, two-minute walk from here!” He dropped the hospital gown and grabbed a pair of jeans off the small dresser. His legs were like toothpicks, his heart visibly pounding in his chest.

“Let us go, Jerry. You’re—”

“Fuck that! Took me a month to find the gold! I’m not telling anybody where it is. I’ll cut you in, but we’re all going.”

I swallowed, my throat dusty. The stories of treasure had all been true. And Jerry found it.

“You were at death’s door two days ago,” I said. “You sure you can handle this?”

Jerry’s jeans actually fit him—I realized they were a woman’s cut. Gisele’s, no doubt.

“I need you guys, Reilly, but I’m going with or without you.”

“Let’s help the man,” Truck said.

I thought of holding Nicole after we’d escaped the Dominicans in the villa at Flamands. How she’d cracked that guy in the balls when I gave the signal. Now she was in serious danger. So was Gisele.

“Let’s go,” I said.

The speedboat Jerry had borrowed from Bernard was indeed fast, and in a couple of minutes we’d rounded the point off Colombier and were headed straight for Ile Chevreau. Jerry guided us to the hidden cut where he’d always parked his Jet Ski. Once we were tied, Truck helped Jerry out of the boat.

“You sure you’re up to climbing this hill?” I said.

Jerry responded by starting to run, though after about twenty yards he slowed to a brisk walk up what I could now see as a well-worn trail. About a quarter of the way up, he stopped to catch his breath.

While Jerry wheezed, Truck glanced at me and dragged his finger across his throat. Without a word, I put Jerry’s arm over my shoulders and we continued the ascent at a sustainable pace.

“So you found a map when you were clearing the land at Eden Rock?” I said.

“One of the old buildings was hit hard by the hurricanes—it was a tear-down.” He coughed. “I was knocking down a wall when an old wine bottle fell out of an air vent.” A few breaths. “There was nothing but an old piece of paper with a drawing on it—”

“The oval with the circles and squares, only one of which was darkened in?”

“You saw my paintings?” He shook his head. “Smart to figure that out.”

“It added up with everything else going on.”

We cut through a patch of sharp bushes—too sharp for talk.

“Never told anybody,” he said when we were clear of them. “Always thought of it as my second chance—” He was wheezing. “But I never knew what the hell it meant. Not like it came with instructions. I spent ten years scouring islands, but the Kid was … so big, I never devoted … enough time there.”

“Until the Dominicans showed up?”

He stopped and braced his hands on his knees. He was breathing so heavily I was afraid I’d need to carry him.

“They came at night, said they knew from a Cousteau crewman’s relative … something had been stashed at Eden Rock.” He huffed and puffed. “Demanded to know what I’d found.” He laughed. “Said I would if they gave me a clue … they didn’t know what it meant and didn’t think I would … but soon as I heard la petite enfant, I