Caribbean Gold

CHAPTER THIRTY

John Jensen cooled his heels for several hours in a thirteen-by-thirteen jail cell. The mattress was narrow and hard, the pillow no better. The air conditioning was as cranky and ineffectual as a pensioner’s complaint, the food bordering between slops and scraps. The police mostly ignored him, no doubt told there were bigger fish on the way to deal with the murderous criminal. He was looking at life. No parole. No sweet smelling lands for him anymore. No sweet tasting food nor women anymore.

Faced with the prospect of losing his freedom a man might be forgiven for a period of introspection. Brooding. Reflection on a life lived and opportunities missed. He might think hard about all the things that would continue as normal without him.

But not Jensen. A career soldier, he focused on the plan. A career criminal, he focused on the plan. Nothing wavered. Nothing changed. Grueling times often yielded lucrative results and this would be the best. Friends and lieutenants sometimes capitulated but Jensen simply left them behind. Some he even left breathing.

But still, time spent in a cell left even Jensen looking back. Where had the transition come between soldier and villain? He couldn’t blame family or a poor upbringing. He couldn’t blame a bad captain or vicious team. He was his own man. Always had been. The truth was — he enjoyed walking along the darker side of the thin line. It made him feel alive. A person existed only for a short span of time on this earth — his future was always diminishing. Jensen thought he might create his own legacy whilst he still lived.

Drifting from place to place, always moving, always savvy, he had sewn together a shabby band of mercenaries, added discipline and income and a little reward mixed with fear. An intelligent leader, he rarely put a foot wrong.

Is the risk worth the reward?

This time, damn right it was. Morgan’s treasure was incalculable, and there were plenty of ruthless collectors out there that would pay twice as much as any government or museum. Jensen wished he knew the time. All he could see through his cell windows was a lessening of the light, so he knew evening was drawing in. All he could smell were microwave meals and his own stale sweat. Panama City was a great, steaming hive tonight, awash with misadventure and opportunity.

Tonight, he would carve out his own piece of history.

Jensen sat with his back to the wall, legs kicking gently. His heart beat rapidly. His mouth was dry so he took a drink from a plastic cup. At his back, the light faded away. If there had ever been a point of no return, Jensen knew this was it. His current crimes were serious but paled somewhat against what was soon to come.

Not soon, Jensen heard the beginning of it. Now.

They landed on the roof, and they would be led by Labadee, Forrester and Levy. Jensen had foreseen the need for more men, ever since he realized the final clue would not pan out, and had sent his three lieutenants on a search and recruit mission for reinforcements. For one last expedition in search of Morgan’s treasure.

Panama was not without its corruptions. The right wallets had been filled to bursting; the correct leverages weighed. The doors he needed open would stay that way, at least for tonight.

The sound of gunfire, the shouting of men and women. An explosion. Some of it was set up by the men he’d paid off, but not all of it. This was how, occasionally, a rival was taken out of the picture or a debt settled. This was how a man with a shadow for a soul worked. Jensen worked hard to maintain his contacts. Ironically, it was a skill he’d learned from Michael Crouch.

Padding across the floor, he finished the last of his water and threw the plastic cup aside. A small rectangular hole gave him a glimpse into the corridor outside, but all he saw was a sink and a brown wall. Somewhere beyond, men yelled and screamed.

The sound of footsteps sent him retreating into his cell. After all, it could be anyone. The rattle of a bolt and then the door opened slowly. Labadee poked his head through.

“You ready?”

Jensen nodded at the Jamaican. “To get rich? Constantly.”

“First, we must escape Panama.” His lieutenant’s voice was thick.

Jensen followed him out of the room and into the booking area. Cops stood around with their hands in the air, and one lay dead on the floor, bleeding out. Jensen gave none of them a second glance. The rear doors were open, leading straight out to an enclosed yard. Barbed wire topped the walls and CCTV cameras stood all around. Vehicles were parked or abandoned across the area. More bodies lay in between, some still groaning. Labadee pointed to the right where Jensen saw Forrester and Levy waiting. Both men scanned the surroundings and even as Jensen walked toward them Levy fired at a hidden cop, making him scurry for safety.

“Quickly,” Forrester said.

“Our men?”

“Those not here are preparing the boat.”

“Excellent.”

Jensen longed for a drink; it was rare for a waking hour to pass when he didn’t savor the rich nectar, his greatest companion. How could a man endure himself more than with such fine and luxurious help? Plus, it helped him think and kept all the ghosts at bay. Jensen believed that in keeping the ghosts of his past at bay he was in fact helping his fellow man, since accepting any of that amount of retribution would produce a terrible fallout. Maybe Henry Morgan should have drunk more.

Jensen wasn’t about to part with any of his hard-earned currency. Not like Morgan. Bury it nearby? Why? To give it back later? Morgan never had. Jensen had read that Morgan started drinking himself to death as soon as he returned to Jamaica from his time in England.

Having gained a governorship, what then had he lost?

The guilt of all that plundering; the responsibility for so many innocent deaths. The remorse for a life ill-lived. Morgan had taken a different way out. He lost the will and the courage to be a survivor.

Jensen followed Labadee out of the station and toward the road. The assault had been direct and sudden. Merciless. Jensen approved. He had been taught by the other side long ago to strike hard and strike mean.

A sedan stood idling at the curb, its back door open and looking much more inviting than a jail cell. The road to the boat was a long one; the two wenches lounging along the back seat promising a distracting trip. Jensen waited as more shots rang out, preferring on this occasion not to join in with the bloodletting. There would be time enough for all that.

If Crouch found Morgan’s abandoned island.

Jensen had gambled that to make time for himself and fashion a safe getaway, a true-enough tale had to be told. So he had given them the one about the abandoned island, the refuge Morgan kept to himself; and the method in which Jensen himself had found it. Hopefully, the quest would keep them involved and Jensen would find the treasure and disappear before they figured it out.

Hopefully?

He was talking about Michael Crouch here. No way would he succeed in escaping before Crouch found the island.

So was it self-destruction? Did he want to be caught?

Or did he want to test himself against the best?

Jensen knew the answer without even thinking.