Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3), John Cunningham [top fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

ready to go. We swam the remaining distance and arrived at the sandy beach just as Boom-Boom emerged from the foliage between the beach and the villa, which from here looked like the epitome of luxury.

“See anything?” I said.

“Couple people ran into that house when I got to land.”

“Did they have guns?”

His mouth twisted. “Nah, man, looked like tourists. Dude and a woman. Scared shitless.”

“Let’s check it out anyway.”

“What do we do?” Crystal said, her voice hushed.

“Find some answers.”

WE CREPT UP PAST the beach and down the manicured path, hesitated, then listened for what might await us at the villa. Birds chattered, the breeze blew through palms trees—

THUD!

Boom-Boom swung the shotgun around, right past my head.

I crouched into a purple bougainvillea and waited. Nothing. I crept back down the path, stubbed my foot, and nearly fell over a fat green coconut. It had to be the source of the noise.

I kicked it off the path and returned to Crystal and Boom-Boom, still hunkered down.

“Damn coconut.”

We continued on toward the villa. No lights were on and the curtains were drawn. Not exactly heavily fortified—or captors lay in wait inside and would pounce if we got too close.

Once at the front door, we stopped, and both Crystal and Boom-Boom turned to me.

“Now what, brudda?”

“Hide that gun so we aren’t arrested if this is a false alarm,” I said.

I reached up and knocked hard on the door.

A lengthy pause stretched out with no response.

A quick try of the handle revealed the door was locked. To the left was a steep rock incline the villa was built into. No passage in that direction, so I pushed tropical foliage aside and crept through the bushes along the front of the house. Around the corner was a landscaped patio with a bubbling hot tub. There was a sliding glass door but the shades were drawn.

The door glided open. A muffled shriek—I burst through to see a man in an orange Speedo dash from the room. A tousled pretty woman about my age, wrapped in a towel, rushed toward us with a ceramic pitcher raised high to strike.

I ducked and blocked the downward arc of her arm. The pitcher flew from her hand and shattered against the wall—

Another shriek from the adjacent room.

“What do you want!” the woman said. “This is a private villa—I’ll give you all my money!”

My heart raced, Crystal’s face went death-sheet white, and Boom-Boom jumped inside with the shotgun.

“Shut up, bitch!”

To my surprise the woman lunged at him, fists pounding on his raised forearms. Boom-Boom dropped the gun, she dove for it, I stomped my foot down on the stock and pinned it to the terracotta tile.

Crystal shoved the woman, who stumbled over a table. Boom-Boom grabbed the gun.

“Where’s my husband!?” Crystal shouted.

“Husband?” The woman rolled off the ground to jump up in our faces. “What fucking husband—get out!”

Again came a shriek from the other room.

I pushed past the tigress and found a man curled up in a ball on the sofa in the next room. He’d covered himself in pillows that quivered like Jell-O.

This guy who reminded me of a rabbit wasn’t John Thedford. The exposed legs and arms clutching the white cushions were mahogany tan, and his hair was dark brown—not blond.

Boom-Boom rushed in after me with the woman hanging onto his back. She jumped between me and the man cowering in the couch.

“I said get out!” she yelled. “This is none of your business—”

I yanked a cushion from the man—who shrieked, yet again—and my eyes bulged when I recognized him. Gasps erupted in stereo behind me.

“Stud Mahoney?” Boom-Boom’s voice got higher with each syllable.

“We’ll give you our money—she has jewelry!” Stud’s eyes widened. “Crystal?”

“The action star?” Boom-Boom said.

“What have you done, Mike?” Crystal said. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“It was her idea. My manager!”

“Shut the hell up you dumb Polack!” the woman said.

“I don’t understand,” Crystal said. “Why did you—where’s my husband?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Who the hell’re you?” the woman said.

“Crystal Thedford,” Stud said. “My ex fiancée.”

“What?” Boom-Boom and the manager said at once.

“What the fuck’s going on, Mike?” Crystal said. “Or do you only go by Stud now?”

“Back off, honey, you had your chance,” the manager said.

Just then Stud Mahoney, née Mike Kuznewski, jumped up from the couch.

“You rescued me! That’s it, you saved me—the reward, you’ll get the reward!”

“You supposed to be a badass, man—what the fuck?” Boom-Boom had the look of a six-year-old who just caught his parents hiding Easter eggs.

Bile surged in my throat.

“You have a new movie coming out next month, don’t you, Stud?”

He straightened, puffed up his chest, and cocked his shoulder forward.

“That’s right, third in the Brock Blade Navy SEAL series.”

The manager rolled her eyes.

I gritted my teeth.

Crystal sprang forward and punched him in the nose. The blow buckled his knees.

“You son of a bitch! My husband’s been missing for days—and this is a…a publicity stunt!”

Stud clutched his face. Blood dripped down his chin.

“You broke my nose!”

I grabbed him by the arm, yanked him upright, and pulled him toward the door.

“Let’s go, Dud, time for your curtain call!”

“Wait!” the manager shouted. “You’ll get the reward! The studio will pay—”

“Damn straight they will,” Boom-Boom said.

“But that won’t stop the FBI from throwing your meal ticket in jail,” I said.

“Bastards.” Crystal’s voice had dropped to a hiss.

All the attention that could have been focused on searching for her husband had been directed toward this guy. Unbelievable.

Stud pulled his arm out of my grasp and turned toward Crystal.

“Paybacks are hell,” he said.

Boom-Boom kicked Stud in the rear end.

“Shut the hell up, fool. Get your ass out to that plane before I shoot you.” His head snapped toward the manager—co-conspirator—whatever the hell she was. “And you say another word, I’ll throw your skinny ass out that piece-a-shit plane. Now move it, I got business on St. Croix!”

We marched out of the luxury villa. Empty champagne bottles, dirty dishes, and tabloid magazines littered the tables.