Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

Summer gave him a weak smile. “I’ve got a wrenched shoulder and a sore knee, but everything else seems to be working.”

“Look out!” One of the tourists pointed toward the top of the falls.

Dirk and Summer saw the pickup tipping over the ledge. The driver had pursued the Volkswagen to the precipice of the second falls, then stopped to watch the Beetle’s descent. But a boulder underneath had given way, leaving the truck teetering on three wheels. The driver tried backing up but more rocks broke loose. The truck hung in midair for a moment, then plunged over the falls.

With its heavier front end, the truck hit the first terrace nose-first and flipped over. Crashing down the next incline, the truck then somersaulted all the way down the falls. Wheels and bumpers went flying in all directions. The passenger was tossed out the window midway, his body colliding with a limestone boulder that snapped his spine.

The driver rode the pickup all the way to the bottom as it struck the pool with a colossal splash. The cab was completely pulverized. As the truck settled into the water, Dirk knew the driver was dead.

“Might be a good time to get out of here,” he said, grabbing Summer’s arm and pulling her to the riverbank. They staggered past a group of stunned tourists, who stared at the truck’s sunken remains as if waiting for its dead occupant to emerge.

Climbing down the remaining falls, Dirk and Summer found a Montego Bay resort hotel bus idling in the parking lot and casually boarded it. They hunkered down in the back row, trying to avoid the gaze of the tourists following them, who chatted excitedly about the vehicles they saw plunge down the falls.

When the bus got under way, Summer noticed her brother’s wide grin. “What’s so amusing? We almost got killed back there.”

“I was just thinking about the look that will be on that guy’s face.”

“What guy?”

“The guy at the car rental counter when we tell him where to collect the Volkswagen.”

31

The bungalow was dark as the intruder crept onto the porch at two in the morning. He stopped and listened for sounds from within. All was silent, aside from the lapping of the nearby surf. He gently placed his palm on the knob and twisted. It turned freely. He eased the door open an inch and peered inside.

The room was almost pitch-black. An open rear window allowed in just a hint of ambient light, revealing that both back bedroom doors were closed. It was better than he had hoped.

The intruder slipped into the house and closed the door behind him. He took a tentative step forward—and a bright floor lamp snapped on. Wheeling around, he squinted toward it. Through the spots dancing in front of his retinas, he saw Dirk sitting in a chair facing him, holding a speargun in his lap. A row of empty beer bottles on an adjacent coffee table testified to the patience of his ambush.

“It’s quite a nice weapon,” Dirk stated. He pointed the loaded speargun at the man. “A KOAH. They cost about six hundred dollars in the States. Not the tool I would expect a simple fisherman from Trelawny Parish to carry, let alone leave behind in his boat.”

“They pay me well, Mr. Dirk.” Samuel’s bright teeth gritted in anguish.

“How about you drop your gun,” Dirk said. It was a command, not a request.

Samuel nodded, pulling a Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband and setting it on the floor.

“I like you and your sister,” the Jamaican said, rising slowly. “I not come to hurt you.”

“But you would for a price.”

“No.” Samuel shook his head.

“I don’t think your friends had the same conviction. Are they both dead?”

Samuel gave a solemn nod.

Dirk swung the speargun toward the coffee table. Partially hidden by the beer bottles lay the red journal of Ellsworth Boyd. Dirk placed the tip of the speargun on the book and nudged it toward Samuel. “Here’s what you’re after. Go ahead and take it.”

Samuel hesitated.

Dirk glared at him. “If you would have asked a few more questions while we were drinking at the Green Stone Bar, you could have saved us both a lot of trouble.” The fatigue of the day’s events, along with the beer, showed in his bloodshot eyes.

Samuel extended an unsteady hand toward the journal.

As his fingers grazed the cover, Dirk slapped down the speargun’s tip. “One thing I need to know first. Who’s paying you?”

“A man in Mo Bay I work for sometimes.”