Silver Goodbye (A Buck Reilly Adventure Book 7) by John H. Cunningham

Author:John H. Cunningham [Cunningham, John H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Greene Street, LLC
Published: 2018-08-03T22:00:00+00:00

SECTION 4

KEY WEST

SATURDAY NIGHT

26

A1A WAS UNDER WATER. I DROVE THE ROVER along the dirt road that runs parallel to the highway. Boats littered the road.

The back of the Rover was loaded with the L.L. Bean bags. I’d done the math while schlepping the bags from the bunker to the plane, and based on the matching numbers that had been sketched on the wall of the tunnel and the bunker, there was over two million dollars in total.

The Rover shook in the wind, guided by a single headlamp. The other had been shattered when Frank forced me to crash through the gate at the private aviation terminal so I could drive onto the tarmac to retrieve the bags. At least I was able to tie Betty down while he unloaded the money. The port engine cowling was scorched and there was a hole the size of a coffee mug through the side where the piston must have exploded. Miracle we hadn’t crashed.

The driver’s-side windshield wiper didn’t help one bit with the blinding rain. I turned onto Bertha and water surged past us. Trees were down everywhere, and the eye hadn’t even hit yet. Nearly every storefront was covered with plywood. A tree blocked First Street past Advanced Auto. I drove over the curb and turned left down Flagler. A “for sale” sign blew past us, accompanied by coconuts and palm fronds.

How did my father become an undersecretary of state while his former smuggling associate rotted in jail? And his partner was killed in Medellín? Nothing I’d learned so far had shed any light on that.

I thought of Jade and pressed harder on the accelerator. Going faster was all but impossible. Waves flew up on each side of the Rover as we moved forward through flooded streets. A gray trash can bounced down the road and sailed toward us. I slammed on the brakes.

CRACK!

It caught the left fender, caromed off, spun, and sailed on.

“It ruins you, Reilly. You think I want to work in that freaking Butterfly Farm? All those pinhead faggots worrying over every damn chrysalis? Old losers and dumb-ass tourists oohing and aweing over insects like they was bars of gold. Torture, I’m telling you.”

Frank’s sudden diarrhea of the mouth was typical of someone who had escaped death. Or maybe it was caused by guilt about killing Greg. While I could never forgive the violence, the greed I understood. But I could never fully calculate how twenty years in prison might change a man for better or worse. Especially when his former partners had vanished along with the proceeds of doing what put you in prison in the first place. No way I’d cut Frank any slack, but I could see how a person could snap. That month on Tortola broke me, that’s for damn sure.

Some homes had lost portions of their roofs. Siding had peeled off others. Trash was everywhere. Floodwaters rolled, buildings were boarded up as if the whole town had gone bankrupt, trees were down everywhere—many already stripped of leaves and branches—and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

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