Icy Blue Descent (Book 4 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) by Simmons JC

Author:Simmons, JC [Simmons, JC]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Nighttime Press LLC
Published: 2011-12-31T15:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was a pounding, pounding. Something beat on my head with a horrible, steady rhythm. Opening my eyes brought more pain, and all I could see was gray paint. There was a nauseating smell of diesel fuel. This was the engine room of a boat, and I was lying in the bilge, bound hand and foot. The heat must have been over a hundred degrees. My clothes were soaked through with sweat; my hands and legs numb. It was hard to breathe.

Panic rushed over me like a dark veil. I fought it with all my mental resources. Deep breaths brought only scorching hot air. Rolling my head from side to side, I noticed the blood. There must be a pint coagulating on the nasty, oily deck. The flow must have stopped or I wouldn't be lying here looking at it.

By the motion of the boat, I knew that we were in open water. How long had I been out? It could be hours or a day. My eyes wouldn't focus and the smell was making me sick. I vomited. At least there was no blood from my stomach. I had a severe head injury and it worried me. Blood clots on the brain in the middle of the ocean insured but one inevitable conclusion.

The engines stopped. The boat went dead in the water and turned broadside to the waves. The motion nauseated me again.

The engine room hatch opened, bringing welcome relief from the heat. Barrel-chest came down the ladder. Saying nothing, he picked me up like a sack of potatoes, carried me up into the salon, and threw me on the sofa with such force it made me wretch. My eyes were not focusing, but I could make out several people standing around. From the slanting rays on the cabin walls, it looked to be near noon.

The two women were there, the Latin American, Barrel-chest, and five other people I had not seen before.

The Latin American appeared to be in charge. His eyes were filmy ovals that held nothing but a dull, mindless hatred. His hand rose and moved over his cheeks and mouth, as if he needed to feel his expression to know what it was.

"We don't know who this one is, or who he's working for. His I.D. says he's a private dick from the states. It don't matter, he was snooping around the boat in Nassau and Moley caught him. We couldn't dump him in the water and take a chance of him washing up on the beach like them Cubans off Land's End. Take him ashore and bury him up by the lighthouse, where they used to keep the puercos. No mistakes or you'll join him." The words seemed to fall with a singular emphasis. They were pronounced quietly, with no remnant of a smile on the olive skin face.

Thinking back to last night, nothing moved aboard this boat. Where did Moley come from? The unlocked salon door should have been a warning. It never

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