Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

his behalf. He must have pressed a button somewhere, because Annette reappeared and stood next to me.

Lou said something loud and indecipherable that made Annette giggle. I realized he must have spoken in French, the one language I spoke enough of to get by, but his nasally Texas accent made it incomprehensible to me. Annette, however, seemed to understand.

Lou turned back to me.

“I hear you got your own plane,” he said. “When you gonna leave?”

“Soon as I get back to Key West and pack some things.” He sneered when I mentioned Key West but didn’t say anything. “I like to have help when I work on salvage projects. You mind if I bring an associate?”

“Long as it ain’t some girlfriend.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Or significantother, as they say down there. This ain’t no paid vacation, Reilly. Harry damn-Greenbaum or not, I want a daily report.”

And there I had it—my dream job.

And while I was searching for trust-fund trash on St. Barths, Jack Dodson would be searching for the treasure of the Concepcíon.

The flight down the Keys usually put me in a relaxed mindset, but Jack had left a reality hangover even Lou’s Visa Black card couldn’t erase. I thought of my binder with each potential treasure file stored in archival sleeves. I couldn’t wait to review what I had on the wreck of the Concepcíon to assess whether Jack had a shot to find it.

To get my mind straight, I repeated my down-island process of naming the different islands as I flew over them. Tavernier blended into Islamorada and then the Matecumbes were followed by Fiesta, Rattlesnake, Grassy, and Marathon. I flew over the old bridge at Bahia Honda, past No Name, Big Pine, and down through the Saddlebunch Keys. I vectored west to stay clear of the naval air traffic at Boca Chica, got into line behind a commercial Dash-8, and followed the air traffic controller’s cue to cross over A1A and set down on runway 27.

With my binder of maps tucked into my flight bag, I checked the private terminal for Ray Floyd, then remembered he was at a video game convention at the Hard Rock Hotel in Fort Lauderdale. Good grief. He’d counted down the days to that gathering like a kid before Christmas. I pictured the beaches in St. Barths, most of which were dotted with nude sunbathers, and wondered whether Ray would have chosen that over the digital warriors he was gaming against now. Then I remembered one of his ‘Floydisms.’ He called it the Wealth / Narcissism factor: the more money someone has, the more self-obsessed they are. St. Barths was not his kind of place.

My old Rover Series II took several tries to start and I exhaled hard when she finally caught. The old girl needed a tune-up and several parts replaced, but the restoration of the Beast had exhausted my funds. As soon as I collected the $20,000 from Lou Atlas, the Rover was next in line for some TLC from Jonesy, my Australian mechanic.

The La Concha was crowded, augmented by the new lobby bar and change in circulation that came with the renovation, and the holiday season was now in full swing since the annual snowbird migration had commenced. Once the massive spa was finished where they had torn down The Top on the roof, the traffic here would be insane. I held my breath as I passed by reception, hoping to avoid Bruce, the day manager—

“Buck!” A female voice sounded.

Emma, one of the reception staff, held a FedEx envelope out to me. Why would someone be sending me an overnight package? I took the lumpy parcel, thanked her, and hastily bumped and jostled my way to the elevator. I squeezed in between cocktail-carrying tourists with glassy eyes and fixed smiles. They had that comfortably numb-and-on-the-crawl look.

Once in my room, I dropped my gear and tore open the envelope. Inside was a DVD and a number of photographs. There was a handwritten note clipped to the pictures.

Buck,

Not so nice to see you yesterday. Better be the last time. If we cross paths hunting for artifacts, then a package just like this will be sent to the FBI. I took the fall, you take a hike.

It wasn’t signed.

I pulled the photographs apart and—shit! They were all from a folder inside our former office safe—the same folder I still kept inside the Beast. My sheaf of maps and more damning stuff in the folder, laid out page by page. Which, dammit, we’d documented for insurance purposes. The photos were dated before e-Antiquity went bankrupt.

My fingertips were numb as I removed the DVD from the jewel case. #5 was written in black magic marker on the disc. I hurried to my machine, turned it on, and watched what I instantly recognized as security footage from what had been our conference room. My father was standing there.

My heart lurched—I hadn’t seen him in video since he’d died four years ago, and what was worse, I recognized the moment even before I saw myself rush into the room, the same sheaf of documents now in my hands. Younger, hair slicked back, Hugo Boss suit, face pale and wild-eyed. I heard my voice fill the room.

“Dad, thanks for coming—”

“What’s so urgent, son?”

“It’s over—this crazy run’s over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The market—our company—the auditors—everything. We’re toast.”

“e-Antiquity?”

“What else would I be talking about?”

My father sat down. I remembered this scene as if it were yesterday. Jack and I had destroyed all the security tapes before the Feds stormed our offices—at least, I thought the tapes had been destroyed.

My father shook his head, a pained, terrified look on his pale face. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as I watched, just as they did on the screen.

“Your mother and I have everything invested in—”

“Sell it now,” I said, “before news hits the press. You have a couple of weeks, I hope. And take this for safe-keeping.” I pushed