Zane: A Navy SEAL Romantic Suspense Read online

  “Two dead. Suspect missing.” He looked up from his phone. He stared at me through his gold-framed aviators.

  “Not the kind of things cops normally do,” I said.

  “No.” He continued to stare me down. “Not usually.” He continued looking at me curiously. Took another sip of his coffee. “What do you propose?”

  “I will release the brother and sister. Drop them off at the processing office for asylum seekers. I will put your captain on a ferry back to Bodrum.” I took a sip of my coffee. “And I want your help.”

  His eyes still on me. He said nothing.

  “I have GPS, route maps and time tables for the Greeks and the Turks. The Turkish boats won’t follow me once I get five hundred yards from shore. Not worth the risk. They can’t catch me. They can’t sink me like your rafts. And they don’t fire their weapons. Once I clear five hundred yards I’m home free.”

  Still nothing.

  “This brother and sister that I have. I can see they have money. I can see they are from a good family. I want these clients. The ones you value too much to put into a rubber raft and then cross your fingers for luck. The ones who pay more. The ones who demand a safe passage without risk.”

  “Why are you here?” He said.

  “What do you mean? I am here to speak with you about business,” I said.

  “No. I mean why are you even in this part of the world? What are you doing here?”

  “I came to visit my mother. She is Greek. She is not doing well. She cannot work. She needs money for medicine and doctors. I have used all my savings. I am not allowed to work in Greece. I don’t have the papers. I must turn to other methods.”

  I could see him trying to make a decision on the truthfulness of my words. He was still on the fence, but he was beginning to lean in my direction.

  “You have miscalculated.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “The boat captain is worthless to me. I have twenty more just like him. The brother and sister. They are already in Greece. I can find them with GPS. I can tell the authorities I have their killer and hostage taker. I have friends at the newspapers and in the media. Your picture would be on every television station before you finished your coffee.”

  I took a sip of my coffee. “Maybe it is you that has miscalculated. I have a pistol pointed at your stomach and two fake passports. I could pull the trigger and disappear in the madness before you take another breath.”

  I could see his head tilt slightly. He was looking at the table. He was looking at my man bag. My hand was right next to it. My fingers spread. They were pointing towards him. Same as the gun in the man bag. The man bag was a flimsy material. Easier to fire the SIG without even removing it from the bag. No one would even see a gun. If my acting was good enough the security cameras might even look like I was making a mad dash like everyone else.

  “You see the man two tables over and one row behind us? The one pretending to enjoy an overpriced blueberry muffin while he does a crossword,” he said. He didn’t have to finish the rest.

  “A Mexican standoff. Not exactly, but close.”

  “Exactly,” he said. He reached down to take another sip of his coffee. Presumably to show his position was at least equal, if not better, than mine.

  “So what do you suggest?” I said.

  “I cannot make a suggestion for you. You are a grown man. You can make your own decisions.” He paused to look out to the sea. “But you do have guts. And a jet ski. And connections on the other side. Maybe something can be done.”

  I said nothing.

  “I have a shop around the corner. It is a friendly place. We can go there and speak in private in the back. If you would like.”

  I thought about it for a few seconds. “How do I know this isn’t a set-up?”

  “You don’t know. That is your predicament. You came asking to deal. I am telling you now. Let’s deal.”

  I raised my hand that was closest to the man bag. The one prepared to pull the trigger of the nine-millimeter pistol inside pointed at the man still only known as McDonalds dash Izmir. I rubbed my fingers together to ask for the check. The waiter began walking in our direction as he pulled out his coin bag. The man who had been eating on the muffin tilted his head from the crossword puzzle. Not a direct look, but definitely focused in our immediate area.

  “Ten lira,” the waiter said. I paid and he thanked me and walked back to his post. Waiting to serve his next customer of the young day.

  “Let’s deal,” I said.

  The man held out both hands. Palms up. It was as if he was offering me a place to stand next to the table. He wanted me to stand first so he could assert his dominance by standing last. I accepted his offer and he rose after me. He dropped his left hand. His right hand and arm were still extended. He changed the direction of the two as if to say right this way. I proceeded.

  Less than three minutes later we arrived at the shop. There were three men out front smoking shisha and sipping on Turkish tea. They smiled as we entered. We walked to the back and talked on his couch. A young girl entered and presented us with small cups of tea as soon as we sat down. She removed them from her tray and sat them on small saucers on the low table in front of us. She said nothing and departed quickly. The cup was so hot I could barely hold the glass let alone sip from it.

  We spoke business. He had an important family coming in two days. It would take two trips on the jet ski, but it was easily doable. I know the going rate for a speedboat or sailboat is up to €10,000 per person. A family of four would command €40,000 at that rate. The man offered me €4000 total. Probably about ten percent of a VIP crossing, or what would have been the full amount if they made the voyage by raft. Just like Amena and Adnan. He told me he would call me a few hours in advance of the time he would need me. Then I would cross the sea and meet with one of his associates. The associate would give me the map of the location where the refugees were located. I would go immediately, pick them up, and take them to Kos. I would be paid no later than three days. If the refugees called in the successful crossing when they landed the money would be released from the third party, which holds the money, right away. I could pick it up from one of his associates then. In the meantime I would return to Kos and take Amena and Adnan to the asylum processing office. I would return the phone to Adnan and he would call in to report his safety. I’d then go to the harbor in Kos and buy a ticket back to Bodrum. Karem would take the ticket in my place. I accepted the terms and we settled it with a handshake. I downed my tea and stood to leave.

  “I’m Niarchos. What should I call you?”

  “I thought you said your mother was Greek,” he said.

  “She is. I took her name. My mother and father were never married. He left before I was born.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. Long time ago.”

  “So it’s Niarchos. Like the famous Golden Greek. Stavros Niarchos.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Niarchos, I am the Turk. It is not a proper name, but it is what everyone here knows me as, and the best way to address me. But for now, I’m sorry but I must insist, please do not use my name. Others should not know we have this agreement. Yet.”

  “Understood.”

  I returned to Kos and carried out our agreement. I bought two prepaid disposable phones. With the first phone I texted the new number to a number the Turk had given me. Now just to wait for the call. With the second phone I texted just two and a half words. I’m in.

  Chapter 2

  Who was I kidding? I had been in for seven entire days now, ever since that late afternoon in Mykonos when I saw a dead man swim to a boat where he was greeted by three beach blonde Barbie bimbo Russians offering towels and champagne. I wasn’t hallucinating. It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. It wasn’t a close resemblance or doppelganger. It was a man who had died six years ago. I was one hundred percent sure. The sun was bright, and I had my shades on. No excuses about reflectio
ns off the crystal clear waters of the Aegean Sea. It was him. If I could picture him older by six years this is what he would look like. He even had the marks of the bullet holes that had killed him.

  It was late afternoon at Paradise Beach, Mykonos. I was free diving while Masha, Dasha, and Natasha snorkeled just overhead. We met the night prior at Sakis Gyros in old town and finished the night with a night capper at their beach bungalow. The night capper had rolled over into morning debauchery which now had me up 36 hours straight. No better way than to catch a second wind than with some time in the water.

  We made our way to the rocks just over on Paranga Beach and then began the swim back to Paradise Beach to grab our towels. We wanted to have a cocktail in hand in time to catch sunset back on the west side of the island where I was staying. The girls promised to cook me a traditional Latvian dinner after drinks. Two offers I couldn’t refuse. We were no more than one hundred yards from shore on Paradise Beach. No more than forty yards to my left was a sleek, dark grey yacht. I heard the engine fire and saw the guy pull himself up the ladder and board the vessel. He was in a small Gucci banana hammock and Persol 619 sunglasses. He looked like a mash up of Liberace and Steve McQueen. An unlikely pair if there ever was one, but in Mykonos the unusual is usual. He looked about forty. He turned back to raise the ladder. We looked right at each other as you do at someone in such an instance when you’re a man surrounded by beautiful woman and spot another man surrounded by beautiful women. A hat tip of sorts. There was nothing of the sort today. I swam another stroke and stopped. He paused in the middle of raising the ladder. Something had clicked in both our brains. I wasn’t sure if he had recognized me. I was wearing a beard; very different from the last time he had seen me. He had a strange look on his face. He stowed the ladder and accepted the champagne offering from one of his bimbos. The other two proceeded to towel him dry as he walked from the stern to the bow. The yacht elegantly moved forward without so much as a wake or a shake. They were surely on their way to one of the many hidden corners of the island.

  I made a mental note of the craft identification number. I stayed calm and kept a clear mind. If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it, but I had, and I did. Six years of facts had been refuted by one new fact. Visual evidence. He was alive. This was going to be a big problem.

  That’s how it all started. The first day. The girls and I made our way to the shore. Seems like we weren’t the only ones with ideas of sunsets and cocktails. There was a mad rush of people preparing to go. Shaking the sand from their towels. Brushing the sand from in between their toes. Covering their toned and sculpted bodies with sarongs and oversized shirts on the way back to their accommodations. The sarongs and shirts were so transparent is was more of the idea that they might provide a level of respectable modesty than actually providing it. None of that mattered. I wasn’t thinking about random girls and the idea of catching a sunset with my new holiday companions was quickly forgotten. I took a rain check from the girls. They weren’t too happy about it. I jumped on my scooter and headed back to my bungalow.

  I told myself I wasn’t going to use electronic devices on this holiday. That rule was out the window. I fired up my computer and pulled up the text file where I kept my list of encrypted contact names and numbers. I was looking through the names of people I hadn’t seen or spoken with in years. I needed someone I had been close with. Someone who I had a tight bond with. Key word was had. For a moment I faintly wished I had sent out Christmas cards every year like my mom said I should. Too late for that now. I choose a guy who I had spearfished with a couple times. I had met him when we teamed with the Coast Guard for some training years ago. We had had a few beers together since our last time in the water, but we weren’t especially tight. At least he might have the access I needed.

  “I need your help with a craft identification number,” I said over an echo-filled Skype line. “Personal favor.”

  He remembered me, so he was cool about the call. We didn’t small talk, but I’m sure he remembered me showing him one of my better spots for halibut. I said the numbers. I was on the top of the hill and the Wi-Fi was strong, but I had to repeat the numbers twice more. I let him know that it was most likely registered to an individual or possibly wrapped in a business or shell corporation for privacy reasons, but definitely wasn’t government. The reception was bad and he asked for a proper phone number. I looked at the phone beside my bed. This will have to do I thought. He wrote it down and said he’d call me back in the morning his time. That would be the afternoon my time. And that would be day two.

  The call never came. At least not the one to me. He decided to call someone else instead. I don’t blame him. Most people in his shoes would have done the same thing.

  I had woken up early and went for a swim at Agios Stefanos beach. It was just down the hill and I could hit up the café for breakfast after. After breakfast I walked back up the hill and waited for the call.

  Instead of a call I got a knock on the door. It was just after 1500. I looked through the peephole. There were two people. One man and one woman. They weren’t in swimsuits or even shorts. Navy blue polo shirts and trousers. The man had a satchel. They were holding up official looking IDs. They had them positioned so that I could see them clearly if I was looking through the peephole, which of course I would be.

  “Federal agents,” the man announced. It was loud, but not loud enough that any of the neighbors would hear.

  I thought about pretending like I wasn’t around. The odds were high that I might be out for a swim or enjoying my holiday. That wasn’t going to fly in this case. I had been on the other side of the door plenty of times. Usually armed and dangerous. That may or may not be the case here, but certainly they’d wait me out or just call the manager of the bungalow. I opened the door and stepped aside so they could enter. No words.

  They had a cautious look about them. It was as if they already didn’t trust me. I was only wearing shorts. Not even flip-flops. The scanned the room quickly. I could see the tension leave their faces when they saw I was a pair of swim trunks away from being naked and there were no guns in sight. If things got out of control they figured they were at least starting with the upper hand. It probably didn’t hurt that I was calm and didn’t look like some crazy guy.

  There were plenty of worried faces these days. The Greek economic crisis had the people on edge, both on a personal level and from a business point of view. Tourism was down by at least twenty percent. Less crowded was all I thought.

  They handed me their IDs and walked around. They were professional, not rude. Still I would have preferred they weren’t anything at all. That they hadn’t shown up. The badges said: Drug Enforcement Administration. At the bottom they said: Special Agent. There was an eagle at the top. Wings spread of course. Over the Eagle it said: Department of Justice. In the middle it said: US in huge letters as if I couldn’t already guess. Their IDs had their photographs in the top right with a Department of Justice seal to their immediate left. There was a bar code at the bottom and plenty of other writing on the rest of it. The name said Bill Frost. An ironic last name considering it was easily over one hundred degrees outside in the spot where Bill had just been standing. I wondered if his first name was really Bill. Being a government ID they’d surely require he use William if that was his given name. I’m not sure if I ever met a guy with a given name of Bill. The man in the photograph was certainly the man standing in front of me now. Bill was Bill. Granted he looked a little friendlier now than in his picture.

  When you take those government issued IDs they always tell you not to smile. I’m guessing for the DEA they instruct a mean or serious look. That way the smile they give you when they’re busting you must feel that much sweeter. I guess they have to earn it. In Bill’s case I couldn’t tell if he was friendly by nature or he was friendly because he wanted to try and build trust before he tried to break me down and find out just what I was after.

  Bill looked
to be about forty, but was still in good shape. He didn’t seem out of breath, which was a surprise, as the hills on Mykonos are steep and I didn’t hear a car or see one parked outside when I opened the door to let them in. The woman’s ID said: Claire Abbey. Claire Abbey was a lot younger than Bill Frost. She looked to be half his age, but had to be at least twenty one to apply to the agency. She looked like she barely made the cut off. She was athletic and fit. She could have been Bill Frost’s sister. Two attractive, fit, sandy blondes with pale skin in the middle of summer. The pale skin likely the result of too much time behind a desk shuffling paperwork and not enough time fighting bad guys.

  “If you want to conduct a search, go for it. I’ve got all afternoon, and the fridge is stocked with beers. Mythos lagers.”

  I gave them their IDs back and they quickly put them inside their pockets. They were carrying Glock 23s. Easier to conceal than the 22s and takes magazines for both. As accurate as the 22s on a twenty-five yard course. They weren’t twenty-five yards away and their weapons weren’t concealed either.