Marshall's Gold: A LT. CODY BRANNON MYSTERY THRILLER Read online

  Marshall's Gold

  A Lt. Cody Brannon Mystery Thriller

  K.R. Hill

  Amazon

  Copyright © 2022 Kevin R. Hill

  All rights reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: K.R. Hill

  To Rosemary and Katherine,

  and to Brecko, who taught me about rum and

  the reef. Also to f...ing a John, my spearfishing

  partner. I still laugh when I remember you pulling on your swim shorts with a scorpion inside. 'Salute.' I should also mention 'Coon Ass Charlie. Thanks for the margaritas on Tea Time. May we soon sail her to Havana. 'Steel is real.' Maureen, for the best friendship and nachos south of the border....

  "I'd hate to die knowing that I had not LIVED."

  K.R. Hill

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

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  Books by K.R. Hill

  Chapter 1

  Puerto Morelos, Mexico

  By midnight the shouts and laughter from the cantina had long since faded away, and the only sound that remained in the village was the hush of the Caribbean sliding up the beach. That is until a black van, moving slowly like a mechanical predator hunting in the darkness, rolled into town without lights, turned down the road at the edge of the jungle, and came to a stop hidden beside a mound of gravel.

  Six men in black uniforms climbed from the van.

  “It’s 2 a.m.,” said the leader, pulling a ski mask over his face. “Remember, search for gold coins and keep the owner of the house alive. Check your weapons.”

  The soldiers attached silencers to their weapons, shoved clips into assault rifles, chambered rounds, and moved into line.

  “Matteo,” said the leader, leaning into the van through the side door, “stay here and keep the engine running. If we’re not back in fifteen minutes, get out of town.”

  “Good luck,” said Matteo, elbows on the steering wheel.

  The leader nodded and walked along the street with the other men following in single file, assault rifles sweeping the area. Silently they crept along the sandy street, past shacks and modern tourist houses painted turquoise, orange, and deep green.

  Suddenly the leader jerked up a fist, and the troop stopped.

  A pit bull walked across a sandy yard, sniffed the air, and growled.

  The leader watched the animal through the scope of his rifle and moved a finger to the trigger.

  The dog stepped into the street lined with coconut palms, looked at the men, and ambled away.

  The leader lowered his weapon. The troop walked on. When they came to a chest-high gate with a starfish nailed to it, the leader opened it and nodded. The soldier at the rear of the line knelt beside the gate. The others rushed into the house. Silencer-equipped weapons spit and flashed like old-fashioned flash bulbs.

  When the leader stepped into the living room of the cinder-block house, two of his men were carrying the owner. They sat the prisoner on a chair and zip-tied his arms behind his back.

  “Where’s my family? Did you kill my family?” Drops of sweat ran down the man’s puffy, middle-aged face. The hairs of his chest protruded from a tank top.

  The leader pulled the ski mask from his face.

  The prisoner looked at the tattoo on the leader’s neck and pulled away. “We are not connected with the cartels. I am a fisherman. Please, I beg you, don’t hurt my family.”

  The leader smiled and leaned close. “I’m not with the cartels. You sold a gold coin in Cancún. Where did you get it?”

  “On the reef. I was spearfishing to feed my family.”

  The leader straightened up, removed a knife strapped to his side, and rubbed the blade against the man’s cheek. “Where exactly?”

  “On the reef. I told you.”

  The leader jabbed the knife in the prisoner’s thigh and slapped a hand over the man’s mouth to muffle a scream.

  The chair creaked as the prisoner jumped and fought. The leader noticed that the prisoner’s wrists were bleeding where the zip ties were cutting into his skin.

  “I do not want to kill you,” said the leader, removing his hand from the man’s mouth. “Where on the reef?”

  “By the old cannon.”

  “What cannon?”

  “There’s an old cannon on the sea floor—in front of the resort. That’s where I found it.”

  “Okay.” The leader straightened up, stepped away from the prisoner, and tapped the phone in his ear. “I have the location. Yes, there is a shipwreck. A ship’s cannon marks the spot.” He paced back and forth, nodded a few times, and said, “Yes, General, the boat will be ready. We’ll dive at daybreak.”

  The leader nodded to one of his men and walked to the door. He wondered if there might actually be pirate gold. And if there was, it might soon be in his hands. As he stepped out into the warm night, there was a flash behind him.

  Chapter 2

  Marshall yawned and stretched, and the hammock creaked as he looked out the window. The sun was beginning to lighten the horizon. Within minutes, he knew, birds in the surrounding jungle would start singing, telling the world that a new day had arrived.

  “Time to go fishing,” he whispered, threw back the sheet and stood, draped the hammock over a chair, and turned off the ceiling fan. He could hear Juanita, the maid, in the kitchen banging pans around and filling the coffeepot. Marshall found his shirt and wandered down the hall to the other bedroom.

  “C. J. Hey, sleepyhead,” he said, rubbing the boy’s shoulder.

  C. J. rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. “Oh, we're home. Dad, I dreamed we were still in the mountain cabin.”

  “Aren’t you glad we weren't here when the hurricane hit?”

  C. J. stretched, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. “I'm happy it didn't take our house.”

  Marshall smiled and stood up. “Remember, I'm going spearfishing with Nick. Juanita will take you to school.”

  C. J. pulled the sheet up around his neck and closed his eyes. “Okay, Dad.”

  Marshall hurried down the stairs and said Buenos días to the maid. The old Mayan woman held a burning piece of paper and poked it at a burner on the stove. When the gas ignited, she dropped the paper in the sink and wiped her hands on her dress.

  Marshall walked to his study, dropped into a big leather chair, checked messages on his cell phone, and swiped the computer screen. As he was scrollin
g through emails, he heard the rumble of Nick's Jeep.

  “Let's get this show rolling,” called Nick. A few minutes later, he entered the study.

  “Why don’t you get some coffee?”

  Nick smiled and sipped from a steaming cup. “I think I will. Juanita makes the best in town.”

  “I’ll be ready in a second.” Marshall said as he typed.

  “It’s a good day for fishing. I can feel it in my bones.” Nick leaned forward and took a photo from the wall. “Who’s the guy you’re with here?”

  Marshall glanced over. “My brother, Cody.”

  “A military family. Was he a Ranger too?”

  “Yeah, he taught hand-to-hand.”

  “He must have been good to teach the special forces.”

  Marshall hunched his shoulders. “He was always into that stuff, ever since he was a kid.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Ah, over in Europe. He married a German woman. Or maybe she was Dutch.”

  After a few words about the weather and the type of fish they might catch, they gathered up hats, a thermos full of coffee, a bag of frozen bait, a bottle of balsamic vinegar in case they touched fire coral, and Marshall's favorite fillet knife. In less than a minute they were out the door.

  “I'm kind of hungry,” said Nick, climbing into the Jeep. “I thought I'd head over to Don Pedro's and get a few salbutes.”

  “Are they open this early?” Marshall shifted the coffee cup from hand to hand as he fastened his seat belt, then steadied it with both hands and tried to take a sip as the Jeep bounced over the road. After it spilled several times, he gave up and emptied the cup out the door.

  “Yeah, new hours for the fishermen.” Nick pointed up the street toward the tin-roofed shack known as Don Pedro’s restaurant.

  “Whoa,” said Marshall, pointing to the beach. “Did you see that yacht?”

  Nick shoved the gearshift into neutral, turned off the engine, and the Jeep coasted to the curb. Two fishermen carrying scuba tanks, spear guns, and fins, walked past and called good morning.

  Marshall returned the greeting, climbed out, and turned to the beach. Parked in the clearing before the pier, two shiny Range Rovers stood side by side with their doors open. Men carried boxes and plastic-wrapped cartons from the vehicles and stacked them at the end of the dock.

  “Those guys are ex-military,” said Marshall. “I can smell it.”

  “Takes one to know one. Oh, by the way, remember Poncho, the shoeshine kid? I heard his dad went spearfishing and found some gold coins. Everyone thinks the hurricane uncovered Black Beard’s shipwreck, like that old story is true. Now those Range Rover guys are searching for the gold.”

  “You mean they’re with that yacht?”

  “Nothing gets past you.”

  The smell of frying bacon drifted through the air. Marshall tapped Nick on the shoulder as he walked into the restaurant. “Come on. We're going fishing. I don't want to think about those guys.”

  As Marshall stood at the counter, a car drove up and hit something. A second later, a boy cried out, and that got Marshall’s attention, so he walked outside to see what had happened.

  One of the Range Rovers stood at the curb with a bicycle crushed under a front tire. Two men, each with the same neck tattoo, jumped from the vehicle. They had the same muscular build, but the man who climbed from the passenger seat wore his black hair in a mohawk.

  “You parked in the street,” said the driver, tugging on the bicycle. When he couldn't pull it from beneath the tire, he climbed in the SUV, started the engine, and backed up.

  “My bicycle!” A boy of eight years, tears rolling down his cheeks, stood looking at his twisted metal bike.

  “Move,” snapped the driver, and pushed the boy.

  The boy fell, jumped up, and kicked the guy in the shin.

  The driver winced and drew his hand back as though he was going to slap the child.

  That was when Marshall stepped between them.

  “A grown man, and you're going to strike a boy?” Marshall stood close to the driver. “You ran over his bike. That means you buy a new one. Simple.”

  “Few men would challenge me,” whispered the driver, teeth clamped together.

  “Only boys for you, right?”

  The mohawk guy stepped up beside the driver. “Federico,” he said. “We need to stay on schedule.”

  Marshall laughed. “Oh, I see, Federico, or Freddy. You two are twins. Do two of you make a whole man?”

  The driver tried to punch, but Marshall grabbed his arm.

  “Federico,” said the mohawk, “think of our client. We're wasting time.” He climbed into the Range Rover.

  Federico reached into his pocket and took out a couple of bills, wadded them up and tossed them to the street.

  “Boy,” said Marshall. “Get that money. That'll buy you a new bicycle. Don't park on the curb again. Understand?”

  “Never again, Mr. Marshall.” The boy sobbed and picked up the bills.

  “See, Freddy,” said Marshall. “That was easy. Now go and drive.”

  “Marshall. That is your name, right? Your Spanish is good, but I hear the edge of an American accent. I'm sure I'll see you again, Marshall.” The driver backed away, brushed his shirt with both hands, as though brushing off dirt, climbed into the SUV and closed the door.

  As the vehicle drove away, Marshall knelt and waved the boy over.

  “Yes, Mr. Marshall.” The boy wiped tears from his face.

  Marshall patted the kid on the shoulder. “Call me Marshall. We’re friends now. Don’t be sad and hang your head. You did good. You fought for what you knew was right.”

  The boy looked up, smiled with pride, and nodded.

  “Take that money and don’t tell anyone you have it, and this afternoon me and you will drive into Cancún and buy you a new bike. Okay?”

  “I’ll be waiting at your house. Ah, is it okay with C. J. if I drive in your car to Cancún?”

  “Okay with C. J.?” repeated Marshall. “I’m C. J.’s dad. I decide who rides in my car.”

  “Yes, Mr. Marshall.”

  “Just Marshall. Now you better get along to school. And don’t tell anyone you have that money, or the big kids will try to take it.”

  “I won’t.” The boy shoved the bills into his pocket and walked along the street.

  “This isn’t a good way to start a fishing trip,” said Marshall.

  Nick looked into a paper bag. “You better ask C. J. about that kid riding in your car.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you know that guy?” asked Nick.

  “You mean the driver?”

  “Yeah. The way you stared him down, I thought you knew him.”

  “That tattoo on his neck, eagle with a sword through its head, that got me going.” Marshall shook his head.

  “Don’t you like tattoos?”

  Marshall laughed. “I got nothing against ink, just that tattoo. It’s a Columbian special forces tat. When I was a Ranger, I saw what they did to poor villagers.”

  “And one of them is searching our reef for treasure. Can we just forget the whole thing and go fishing?”

  “Amen, brother.”

  Nick chomped into one of his salbutes as he walked. “Oh, man, it’s still warm.” He sighed, took another bite, and mumbled with a full mouth, “I put the fishing poles in the boat. Let's get going.” He stepped into the street and hurried toward the pier.

  “Hey,” called Marshall. “Can I order some food?”

  Nick raised a hand and waved it about. “No, we need to be out on the water when the fish are biting. Besides, you not having any food makes mine taste even better.” He laughed, and after they had walked a few yards, he handed Marshall a salbute.

  ***

  It was one of the rare days when the Caribbean lay smooth as a mountain lake. Frigate birds floated high above the beach, gliding back and forth along the sand, and out toward the reef, that white line in the sea, fo
ur pelicans flew one after the other, wingtips skipping over the surface.

  As the outboard whined, Marshall rubbed a whetstone across a spear tip. After a few minutes he set the spear down, closed his eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. “I love this reef,” he said.

  Nick stood with the tiller in his hand and stared at the shoreline. “Okay, look here. It’s time you learned some landmarks.” He pointed. “You see that turquoise blue tower? The channel through the reef is straight in front of that. When you go through, you’ll see white water on the left and right. Stay in the center.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or the coral will tear the boat apart.”

  Marshall stood and sighted along his arm to the tower. “I got it. Next time I’ll take us through.”

  “Should we go to our lobster spot?” asked Nick.

  “Is that old cannon still there?”

  “Unless the hurricane moved it.”

  “I hope that’s where we’re going.” Marshall smiled and checked his scuba tank and regulator.

  After cruising for ten minutes, Nick released the throttle, and the engine slowed to an idle. Without the engine pushing it, the boat settled a few inches into the sea. “Isn’t this the spot, right in here?”

  Marshall turned to the shore. “There’s the resort. Yeah, it should be right in here. I’ll find it when I dive.” He pulled on the scuba tank, fastened a weight belt around his waist, and dipped a pair of fins over the side.

  “Hey,” said Nick. “It looks like your pals are here, too.”

  Marshall followed the nod to a yacht a hundred yards distant. Two inflatables floated near the stern. Men loaded scuba tanks and ice chests onto the rafts. “They’re searching for Black Beard’s gold.”

  “You think that story is true?” Nick pulled off his baseball cap and finger-combed his long red hair.

  “Who knows?”

  “Who do you think is bankrolling the yacht?”

  “I’m more concerned with that guy on the top deck.” Marshall gestured with his chin. “That’s the guy to worry about.”