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

was fine with them. As for me, after everything that had happened during the week, particularly with Crystal, I was looking to disappear at the soonest possible opportunity. But Special Agent T. Edward Booth was still demanding answers.

“You need to explain how those last two jet skis got knocked out with a bale of high-grade marijuana and a case of Margaritaville Tequila, Reilly. And how did you all get back to the hospital after getting shot up?”

In all the time I’d known Booth, I’d never seen such complete frustration on his face. I recalled the black planes swooping down and blotting out the brilliant Caribbean stars—and the face in the seaplane.

“I have no memories of the shootout, Booth. I guess losing a few pints of blood does that to you.” Booth squinty-eyed me. “Any news about Viktor Galey?”

“No sign of him, but—”

“You let him get away?”

“We think he had inside help, Reilly. We lost three men—”

“Was the helicopter still there?”

Booth just stared at me, his mouth open. “Helicopter?”

I sighed.

“What about Bramble?” I said.

Booth crossed his arms. “We haven’t seen him anywhere.”

I feigned falling asleep until Booth hurried off toward one of the movie stars.

Jamie Foxx was talking to Boom-Boom and Diego, soaking up their stories, manner of speech, and nonchalance as if preparing for a new role. The boys were giddy at the attention, but when he caught me watching him, Diego’s face turned serious.

“You still owe me for Guana Island,” he said.

“And me for the Russians, brudda,” Boom-Boom said.

After a long few seconds, they both burst into laughter.

Ray and Lenny had scored points for rescuing us from certain death by knocking out the last of the jet ski killers. Although their methodology had been left out of the news reports, they captivated the celebrities with their story of scrambling in the darkness with a plane full of contraband used to dispatch assassins.

Valentine Hodge regaled anyone who cared to listen with stories about the history of the British Virgin Islands, his presence adding a touch of grace and sophistication to our cast of misfits.

John Thedford had turned out to be a visionary who could kick ass. As for Crystal, well, she was keeping her distance. She’d given me a long, tearful embrace when I was released from the hospital but couldn’t bring herself to utter a word. It hurt, but I understood.

For now, both Thedfords appeared calm, confident, and determined to dedicate their lives to helping adoptees, changing society’s view toward women facing unplanned pregnancy, and hoping to replace the walls between the hardened constituencies of “choice” with bridges.

No small task there.

Jimmy Buffett and Matt Hoggatt were on stage, the chemistry between them entirely natural—two Mississippi-cum-Caribbean country crooners as at home in these islands as any of the natives. Since I had yet to speak to them I didn’t know for sure whether or not it had been them on that other seaplane. If not, it must have been a hallucination caused by blood loss. I’m no investigator, but Buffett was known to have a Cessna Caravan with floats, and Hoggatt had been a police detective. And Booth said one of the jet ski drivers had been cold-cocked with a case of Margaritaville Tequila.

A cool breeze blew through the backstage at Foxy’s as I took in the scene: the roaring crowd, the cameras, the azure sea framed in coconut palms, and the harbor filled with boats of all size and shape.

John Thedford said that lost finger or not he still believed things happened for a reason, and even derelicts like Boom-Boom, Diego, and me had a purpose on this earth.

Maybe mine had been to save his life so he could change the world.

You never know.

A beach ball flew up from the stage and Buffett swatted it back over his head. It landed right in my lap. He glanced back with that trademark smile and gave me a wink.

I heard footsteps behind me. “You ready to take me up on that drink, cowboy?”

Avery Rose. She kissed my cheek and then looked back at the stage.

“This next song is one Matt and I just wrote.” Buffet looked right at me with a shit-eating grin.

Matt Hoggatt stepped up to the microphone.

“It’s called ‘The Ballad of Buck Reilly.’”

THE SUN WAS HOT on my chest and made the skin under my bandage itch. In front of me was nothing but blue water with wispy cirrus clouds drifting overhead. The Beast was beached up near the breakwater. Sweat ran down my torso and dripped into the sand from the teak lounge chair I’d been parked in for the better part of the morning since emerging from the private villa here on Guana Island.

A periodic buzzing sound came from the tall grass behind me, or maybe it was from the villa itself. I wasn’t sure and frankly didn’t care. The concert had ended last night, my charter for ISA was over, and I was back on my own clock. The warm breeze rustled the grass and a feather blew across raked sand so white I had to squint underneath my sunglasses.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that I’d decided to abstain from the charter side of my business and focus again on salvage. People and their problems tended to wear me out. Hell, this time they nearly got me killed. I smiled—not that I regretted one moment of this trip.

“Buck?”

Avery Rose ambled down the path from the villa holding a tray with a pitcher of fresh margaritas and salt-rimmed glasses. She moved with the delicate care of someone who’d gone to great length to create something they didn’t want to see ruined.

“I wasn’t sure if you were awake.” She placed the tray on a small teak table next to our chairs, bent down, and pressed her moist, full lips against mine. “You need to rest up to restore your energy.”

“Indeed.”

Ever fearful of paparazzi eager to spoil her public image of country innocence, she glanced up and down the private