The Shark Hunter & Love Potion #8

By C.H. Tweed

cole scott has struggled to reach the pinnacle of success in the world of armaments. he has established himself with a set of rules that are simple and constant. The reputation he creates is one of honesty, financial stability and personal power. with his fortune and his reputation an irrefutable success, the challenge for him becomes one of retaining the excitement of his chase to glory.
hunting sharks becomes his passion and to a degree, satisfies his need for the excitement that has defined his life. His personal life has become a major stress point as his wife Jae continues down the path of alcoholism. cole continues to escape what he believes to be his only failure by wrapping himself in his work.
A convening of energy industrialists in Atlanta affords him an opportunity to avoid his private torment but quickly leads him into the most dangerous proposal of his career. he is drawn into the conspiracy by his desire for the beautiful gabrielle kinross who appears then disappears at appropriate moments.
cole is led into the aquisition of stolen government weapons inappropriately named love potion #8.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.H. Tweed
• Release date: Aug 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476096582

C.H. Tweed

I am a grandmother and a retired Medical Technologist. I have been telling stories since I was in third grade and hogging the stage ever since. My home is North Carolina but I spent some time in Miami and Daytona Beach during my college days and I included some old haunts and locations that I remembered from that time. The Love Potion in the title is derived from that old shag tune Love Potion #9. I love the sea, the sand and everything related to coastal living. My next adventure with the handsome Cole Scott will have a location on the North Carolina coast. It gives me great pleasure to think I might be able to write something that others find interesting. My hope is that you will enjoy this book enough to tune in to the next one. Thank you for reading The Shark Hunter & Love Potion #8.

Book preview

The Shark Hunter

& Love Potion #8

by C.H. Tweed

Copyright © 2012 by C.H. Tweed

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

About the Author

Chapter I

Cole Scott

I had never killed a man before. It wasn’t my line of work. I’m an international arms broker and I make deals obtaining or selling weapons. I’m the link between buyer and seller and it’s a very personal link. I don’t do business on line, on the phone, or by carrier pigeon. It’s important for me to know who I’m selling to or buying from and I want to be able to look them in the eye and know that I have done an extensive background check on them and their children. That’s what keeps my reputation glossy and bright. You can’t make money in this business if no one trusts you. I read people and people think they can read me, which is ok, as long as they can’t and I really can.

Cole Scott is my given name and I have always been known as a Southern Gentleman, a good ole boy; but I don’t smoke cigars and I don’t drink bourbon. I like scotch and I still like cigarettes although I gave them up two years, three months and five days ago. I am more of a soft spoken, easy walkin’ type. I learned early on that a perception of vulnerability could pay off, especially when it came wrapped in an attractive package that offered well set brown eyes, thick auburn hair and a well muscled physique. Add in just enough Southern drawl and you have a winning combination, if you’ll pardon the personal insight. When you grow up an orphan you use what’s available to make things work for you, whether you’re in the backseat of a car with your girl friend or in a boardroom with testosterone packed military. I have had clients that could never understand how a man that didn’t talk like them had a mind that understood money so completely. My investors soon learned that a Southern drawl had nothing to do with intelligence although they continued to be amazed when my financial acumen made them a pot full of money. So I smiled discreetly, kept my Southern drawl and thought about charging them double for my services. They deserved it but I never could put myself down on their level.

For almost as long as I can remember I’ve had three vices: Jae Faircloth, cigarettes and beer. Jae was a beautiful blond, the Vidalia Onion queen her senior year in college. Her family had made their millions growing the flat, sweet onion that grew best in South Georgia soil so it followed that she should be queen of the root that her family made famous.

Jae and I married and I spent seven years paying back what I owed to Valdosta State College where I picked up my degree in math and economics. Her old man let me pay back my own school debt by working for him because he knew if he took care of the debt I would be long gone with his daughter in tow. So I took care of his books and learned all I could about how to run a business to make money.

What her father didn’t know was that Jae was a closet drunk. I was her choice to play husband in her real life drama; the handsome, swashbuckling, South Georgia boy who was too busy making love and grades to care that she was always sipping from the flask that she carried in her purse.

When the end of my seventh year came and the college was finally paid, I decided Miami was as good a destination as any, so armed with the old man’s financial connections and my own ambition we set up housekeeping in a home we built along Biscayne Bay. Jae had moved her trust fund to our bank in Miami so we could afford just about anything we wanted. Only problem was that of my 100 proof wife. While I was busy forging a spotless reputation in the investment community, I learned where the money really was-- brokering. I started with farm commodities, which I knew something about, then moved on to minerals, industrial diamonds, oil and finally arms. With wars going on all around us it was where the most money was. My conscience bothered me for a while but a lot of money tends to make liars of us all.

It wasn’t long before I was approached to do an arms deal out of South America. I later found out that I got it because no one else would touch it. The deal was a logistical nightmare that ended up eating a hell of a lot of my commission but teaching me three important things; eliminate 20 percent off the top for miscellaneous pay offs, let a native take care of transportation and last but not least, keep your eyes on the money. With arms, ten percent for bribes is never enough. There were things I should have known but didn’t and transportation costs were the biggest unknown of all. Rental of guides, Jeeps, helicopters, and at times boats, almost wiped out my funding on the first day. Lucky for me I had George Sandal at First Bank Miami who took care of the wire transfer for me. I learned never to go out of the states without an IBAN or a BIC if you plan to do international wire transfers. These two have nothing to do with deodorant or ballpoint pens. They do give you an identity that is recognized by the international banking scene. Access to that transfer kept me from getting killed, but then, there was the disappearance of my fee.

There were several circumstances that contributed to my losing contact with my paycheck; lack of reliable communications, the currency exchange and the buyer’s mistaken presumption that he could get away without paying. He moved the money from one bank to another until I finally caught up with it in Caracas. This took another call to George Sandal who made it his business to contact El Presidente at the Caracas bank just in time to prevent another transfer. I was made to realize how important it is to have money either in your account or someone else’s account that has an interest in keeping you alive and rich. George Sandal set me up with an alias, George Brenner. It was for use when I had something big going on and needed to contact him immediately. I have made good use of it over the years.

So, here I was, after ten years of marriage and five years of Miami transactions with a wife who had her own secretary; who was really more of a nurse that kept them both out of the public eye; a beautiful house on Biscayne Bay, four cars in the garage, one of which was a 1961 Jaguar E Roadster, six cylinder 3800 cc. with 265 horse power that was my personal favorite; and a yearning for something else. But I couldn’t put my finger on what it was that I was yearning for. That was the day I decided to visit my old home state of Georgia. It was a need to get somewhere else, away from the reminders of how I got where I was and whom I owed for it.

There was an Industrial conference being held in Atlanta that could mean good clean contacts with people who had something to sell or wanted to buy. They would need a broker to handle any and all buyers or sellers. It was an established custom for the wealthy that kept them from touching the dirty side of making money. And too, there were sellers and buyers who wished to remain anonymous for other reasons and I had established a reputation for keeping my mouth shut and my clients nameless. It was only business. My mind was awash with possibilities for making more money and leaving behind the one thing at which I was a failure. It was not a decision completely without consequences.

Dangerous situations weren’t completely unknown to me. I had waited alone on deserted docks or on murky side streets in countries that were, more likely than not, hazardous to my health. I had flown around the world to set up a meet between buyer and seller and returned home empty handed but wiser. Now, at thirty-nine, I had influential friends, money to burn and anything else you might think essential to be counted as successful. The logo on the marble surround of my office building was in large stainless steel letters and read Assets Unlimited and that logo didn’t lie. The cold docks, murky streets and sleepless nights had finally paid off.

In pursuit of the elusive adrenalin rush that had disappeared after my monetary success, I took to hunting sharks in the waters off the coast of the Florida Keys. I moored my ship Horizon in a fancy home of its own. It was there in the large covered dock that you found evidence of my successful hunting trips. There were some thirty odd shark heads clinging to the walls of Horizon’s home. She was a great ship. One hundred thirty one feet in length, twenty-seven feet in width. There were three staterooms outfitted in Honduran mahogany. The fourth, which was the master suite, was lined with Pecky Cypress, a graying, pitted wood that had been polished with four-aught steel wool then left unpainted. I chose the cypress for its natural rugged beauty and its ever present aroma; a salty, resinous smell that reminded me of the sea.

It came as no surprise that rules were involved in maintaining my distinctiveness. To succeed in my business it’s important to remain as enigmatic as possible, leaving few clues around for gossipmongers to build on. International power brokers, like me, wield the sword of war. They negotiate bargains and play middleman for those whose power commands armies and sends men and women to die. There was no room for error or the faint of heart in my business. I had become the broker of choice by cultivating significant contacts, maintaining strict client confidentiality and using my personal assets to their fullest potential. Most importantly, I went to great lengths to keep opposing personalities out of the mix and by never letting divisive people get together. My personal promise to myself was one I had never broken. Don’t shit where you eat, which includes not screwing around with the wife or daughter of a principal trader or becoming too close to a trader to stay objective. When you get too close, you just might close your eyes to deals you shouldn’t see or play favorites to one over the other. These rules keep things simple. It’s when you break your rules that things get really complicated. That ball got rolling on a trip to my old stomping grounds of Atlanta, Georgia.

*****

Chapter II

The Shackles of An Old Love

Good Morning, Cole. Jae spoke as she stood in the door of one of the guest rooms where I usually slept. She held a cigarette in one hand a Bloody Mary in the other.

Does Susan know you’re having a liquid breakfast? I asked, not completely without sarcasm.

I gave her the day off. I thought she needed a break from me and I know I needed one from her. Jae spoke of her secretary with some rancor although I knew Susan had the patience of Job and had Jae’s best interest at heart.

There’s a meeting in Atlanta I really need to attend. I said. My teeth suddenly felt on edge as the discomfort of being with her washed over my consciousness, like bath water that had sat too long.

I wouldn’t have left without telling you good-bye. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing. That was part lie and part truth; a compassionate dishonesty that had become a solution to sustaining a relationship that was itself half fact, half make believe. The half fact part of the marital equation kept me safe, for the most part, from designing women who would rather cast their love net over an eligible bachelor than become embroiled in all of the drama of dating a married man. My affairs were private and with women who were wealthy in their own right. They had no inclination to marry me or to divorce in order to marry me.

They were liaisons of friendships turned intimate or mutual physical attractions that were, at times, only warm companionship on a lonely night. There were several things my liaisons and me had in common; a need for privacy, a mutual respect, and a desire for good sex. When my rules were intact and we were both satisfied, it was a good night.

It’s ok, Jae interrupted. I only wanted to know if we should expect you for dinner tonight. Now I can tell Maria she can have the night off. She’ll love you for it." Jae paused and my discomfort grew. Our lives had become so separate that it was hard to reconnect, for her and for me. Time didn’t matter to Jae. Her days would stretch out into the usual nothingness. Even after six of the best rehab centers and four two hundred dollar an hour psychiatrists, her addiction would end up being her death sentence. We both knew and we had cried together. If tears could cure, Jae would have been well a long time ago. There comes a time when you have to save yourself.

I shrugged. I don’t really know how long I’ll be gone. You could say it’s a fishing expedition; a lot of big players looking to buy and sell. I can probably pick up a client or two. My voice began to trail off as I ran out of thoughts to share with my wife. Sadly, we had relegated each other to the bottom of our respective to do lists. She had her alcohol and I had my business.

Searching the room absently, I was unable to focus on what I needed to pack in the overnighter I had laid open on the bed. The strain of civility was making it difficult to continue a conversation so I busied myself with the task of picking and choosing a good selection of clothes for travel.

I really have to go, I said. I’ll let you know when I get back from Atlanta. It was a lie and I knew it but I let it go, feeling the discomfort build but letting the guilt go into over ride. I closed the leather overnighter and brushed past the beautiful blond standing in the way of my exit. Goodbye, Jae, I said. Take care of yourself. It made me feel terribly sad; as though I was saying good-bye to someone I knew I would never see again.

I caught her image out of the corner of my eye as she turned to watch me descend the winding terrazzo stairs of the home we had built together. It had become the monument to a dying marriage. Outside, I looked back to see the beauty of the house, the feeling of loss almost overpowering. It was not something I had wanted, only something that had been inevitable from the start. It struck me then that love at first glance means something entirely different than love over the long view. At twenty, love meant sex any time I wanted it and a beautiful woman to have it with. In my formative years, there were so few women with whom I had contact; Mrs. Bishop the orphanage director’s wife was the first. She was already in her sixties with twenty-five young, active boys to corral and cook for. There had been care, but love was a different story. How can a woman love twenty-five totally different personalities with whom there is no genetic link whatsoever? I don’t have any hang ups in particular, it’s just that I never formed any real or imagined picture in my mind as to what or who love was. With that thought, I left for the airport; taking one of the things I felt a real attachment for, my Jaguar E Roadster. One other thing occurred to me as I raced to the airport; there were times when I could be a complete jerk.

******

Chapter III

A Thief’s Idea of Honor

It was three am, July 3rd 2001 and the first day of the July 4th week. The night was Southern warm, the humidity clinging like molasses to the living and the inanimate. An acrid haze hung over the Research Triangle, Raleigh, North Carolina. The annual fireworks had created it, which was sponsored by the corporations that had businesses there. The crowds had dispersed and the sweet honeysuckle was reclaiming the air. It was quiet again in the Research Triangle

Hawl Tritt had performed assignments such as this hundreds of times before. He was one of the many that prowled the night; the law, the military, and people like him. Usually his job was damn easy, especially when you were as good at something as Hawl. He had drills whose sounds were virtually undetectable to the human ear. They could destroy any lock with their diamond tipped bits. He had other, newer technologies that he kept hidden away in his stainless steel case with its special lint free, super absorbent material that protected his precious instruments. He was a thief’s thief, like a doctor’s doctor. He was the best of the best at what he did.

Hawl had never bought a new car. He drove a 1999 Lincoln Town Car that he had paid cash for at a Raleigh used car lot where he worked as a salesman. The Lincoln was beginning to look its age, but under the hood was a four-barrel carburetor and a well-tuned engine. He took care of it on his own. Nothing he did or bought called attention to himself. He lived in a dilapidated mobile home on a dusty road dotted with other rusting abandoned homes. He paid taxes, traded at the closest super market, and disappeared for several days each month, usually on weekends. As far as everyone knew, he was a local redneck with no desire or ambition to be anything other than what he was.

His tax name as he called it, was William Dunbar, a name he lifted from the tombstone of an infant who had died at birth. TV had given him the inspiration and it proved that the government simply didn’t have the time or inclination to make sure each person was who he said he was. William Dunbar paid his rent on time, took care of his few bills and paid his taxes, all with cash. He didn’t break the speed limit, never ran a stop sign and didn’t have a bank account. He had made himself as obscure as possible.

The tires had long ago had disappeared from the axles of the mobile home and Tritt had wired the metal clad home with enough juice to kill anyone or anything that got too close. It had taken him two weeks of work to run the cable from the transformer some five hundred yards away; digging some then burying some. Now that he had everything just the way he wanted it, he hoped he would be there for a very long time.

He had two phones, his cell phone and a landline that he had installed himself . He ran the phone line to the nearest pole where he tapped on. The calls went to a computer, which took the calls, recorded the time, identified the originator and origination number.

Lastly, Hawl had the electric company place the meter on a pole at the end of his driveway, some 60 feet away from the mobile home. He didn’t want anyone to accidentally to find out the shocking truth.

The job at hand involved a high security building in the Research Triangle. There were ways of gathering information concerning most security systems and he was sure this facility had the top of the line. If you were a Hawl Tritt, all you needed to know was who manufactured the system. This time, it had taken more ingenuity than usual. The manufacturer was HyperZone and they were known for their wireless components. There were three buildings, all protected by one system. It was multilevel and integrated with vehicle and access control, ID badging, fire and alarm systems and lastly intrusion detection. That was his major worry. As each individual entered the building, his picture was stored digitally. The camera was disguised as a light fixture, or a fire detector; it looked like anything but a camera. The whole system was governed by the T-Informer, which was a brain that wirelessly controlled up to twenty-five wireless devices and that was the beauty of the system. There were no wires to be cut. Only the four security guards stood in his way and they were easily eradicated with his Sig 556 pistol. He had made a silencer to fit the Sig as the purchase of that particular accessory might be suspicious or lead to later consequences.

Hawl had hired on at Theokill as one of the evening cleaning crew. It wasn’t unusual for crew members to come and go and gave him the opportunity to familiarize himself with the interior of the buildings. All that was left for him to do was find where the brain was housed. With his expertise in all things electrical it still wouldn’t be easy, but he was certain he could find the brain and disable it for no longer than thirty minutes, which is the length of time he figured it would take for him to get what he came for. Most brains would send out an alert if there were a problem. He hoped to disable it for a set amount of time in hopes of making it think it was being serviced. There was usually a pin number for the service man to enter. Hawl had found a way to fool systems that required a pin number but it was one of his secret tools that he would never share with another living soul. You could almost depend on a unit such as this to be stuck away in a concealed room that was convenient to all three buildings. That usually meant the basement of the most centrally located building. Once he had found the brain, his ultra high speed drill did the rest. He had disabled the brain, borrowed a hand truck from the warehouse, took the elevator to the fourth floor, loaded the five crates onto the hand truck and left the same way he came in, re-engaging the brain on his way out so there was no alarm at the end of thirty minutes.

There had been some other considerations that prompted him to take the job. Travel was practically zero, which was always a plus and even with the neutralizations, it had been a relatively sterile procedure; nothing dirty left behind to define his presence, no one left alive to identify him. He had a small battery powered instrument that scarfed up the mercury- like shavings from the locks he drilled. He was also very particular about the ammo he used to carry out his neutralizations. Tritt had left four bodies for the cops to play around with, all shot with rapid expansion, fast killing sportsman’s ammo. He always used the faster acting, more humane hunter’s bullets as opposed to military ammo, which was steel, jacketed and would not expand.

It had been a good operation. Quick and silent, he had come and gone much like the southern dew on a hot summer morning. He had taken what he had come for and left his trademark. which was no trademark at all.

******

Chapter IV

Home to Roost

Atlanta was like home to me. Life in an orphanage wasn’t the easiest way to grow up but the South had afforded me everything I needed for success,