From a Jack to a King

By Malcolm John Baker

Following his exploits in Revenge is Mine, our FBI informant is sent on a drug smuggling case. The plane crashes, but not before a Spanish galleon is seen under the sea. This leads to a treasure hunt situation, where rival gangs are warring, leading to the capture of the criminals, the first recorded hurricane, an underground city in Mexico, and the recovery of Francis Drakes and Blackbeards hidden treasures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524576288

Malcolm John Baker

Malcolm John Baker was born in Salisbury, England, in 1945. By trade, he was a chartered surveyor and practised in South London, England. Now retired, he lives in the United States in Florida.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The phone rang in Josh’s office. Josh Young is the FBI agent who handled the recent terrorist attack in Washington DC, which sadly resulted in the death of the doppelganger to the president. He picked up the phone. It was John Smith.

I’m surprised to hear from you after all this time, said Josh. It was six months since the Washington attack,

Oh, I’ve been keeping my distance after the last fiasco, but I thought I should make contact in case you have forgiven me, and I might have some interesting information about a drug delivery.

Josh picked up on that and said, Well, I suppose it wasn’t entirely your fault. The terrorists were just too clever for you. What is the new information you have?

Well, it’s not entirely formulated yet, but the word is a large delivery will be made in Florida in a couple of weeks. Do you want me to investigate further?

Josh though for a moment. John was a petty criminal who was given immunity in exchange for working freelance for the FBI. He is paid a stipend and then for each job he does, he undertakes work that the FBI might find difficult to deal with directly and also John does have good contacts.

Josh responded, Why not? We’ll pay you one thousand dollars to investigate.

Thanks, said John. I won’t let you down this time. Please send the money in the usual way, and I’ll get down there straight away.

They both put the phone down. John was relieved. He wanted to keep in with the FBI firstly for the small income he gets, but also if he needed help on any of his outside activities, he knew he would get it. John had heard that a shipment of heroin was coming to Florida by ship in about three weeks. That’s all he knew. He decided to head down there to investigate. He packed his trusty Harley Davidson with his one-man tent and other things that he would need for a couple of weeks away. He lived in Nashville, Tennessee, so later in the day he set out for Florida, driving to the East Coast then heading south. He didn’t want to rush. The time away gave him time to collect his thoughts. He had thought a lot about Carrie recently. She was his old girlfriend who changed sides in the terror attacks last year and ended up with that group, which had been Mohamed and Khan Ali, the ISIS terrorists, and Alexandra being the other girl.

The two men were killed in the attacks, but the girls escaped and went off together. There were rumors that the girls were left a large sum of money from the men and just disappeared, never to be heard from again. John was missing the feminine touch, so he thought he might kill two birds with one stone; he’d also heard that there was a Harley rally being held this coming weekend at Homestead. Homestead is a small town at the approach to the Keys, south of Miami. He was going to attend, hoping that he might even pick up information there.

He did the drive over two days. He bypassed Miami as he didn’t like all the traffic there, and he arrived at Homestead at about 3 p.m. on a Friday and quickly found one of the campsites that had been set aside for the bikers. He selected his spot, erected his tent, and walked around to socialize. Homestead is now virtually a new town. It was devastated by Hurricane Andrew on August 16, 1992. It was a category 5 hurricane and Homestead was the point of entry into the USA. It was flattened. John, who was there after the event, remembers it looked just like a war zone. He’d never actually been in a war zone, but it was as though he had imagined: houses were flat, rubble everywhere. It has now, of course, been completely rebuilt.

Tonight there was to be a dance for the bikers and, needless to say, much drinking. That suited John, who was a well-built man who liked a drink, always beer. The town of Homestead had been taken over by the bikers for the weekend so there were thousands of bikes all over town, mainly Harleys. Several campsites were set up, all had makeshift bars. The locals did quite well financially, but the noise from the bikes was deafening. Not that that bothered John. It’s a bit like a smoker not minding other people smoking. That evening John dressed in his leathers, as all good bikers do, and attended the dance. The primary object tonight was to find a lady. Most of the ladies were attached and you had to be careful if there was another man involved. No point in looking for trouble at his age. He was now forty-six and past the time of a general brawl.

He saw two ladies together on the other side of the makeshift dance floor. Strolling over to them, he said, Would either of you ladies like to dance?

One jumped out at him and said, I would. My name’s Cloe.

Hi, Cloe, my name’s John. He was pleased this lady had moved first as he thought she was his favorite of the two. She was a well-built woman of about thirty-five with long blonde hair down to her shoulders, with a wisp of pink streaks. She had blue eyes and a lovely face just like a marble statue; perfect complexion. The interesting feature for John was what she was wearing. She was dressed in a complete black fishnet body stocking. She had small black panties and a bra to cover the important parts, but that didn’t leave much to the imagination. They chatted and she seemed very friendly and clearly looking for an association.

They spent most of the evening together and drank a lot of beer. It always amazed John how much beer these ladies could drink. At 2 a.m. they were both out of it and headed back to John’s tent. They were too drunk to get in; they just fell down on the grass and went to sleep. In the morning, they both swore that they would never drink again, but that’s not the first time either of them had said that. John said to Cloe, Why don’t you bring your tent over and erect it on the side of mine.

Okay, I’ll do that, she responded. Thanks. An hour later, Cloe was back and put up her tent next to John’s. They spent the rest of the day getting over their hangover. John was getting curious as to whether anyone had any news of the drug delivery. He went through the site looking for likely drug users. He had a nose for them. He chatted with various people about drugs. There were many users on site. Eventually he came to one couple who said they had heard of a delivery in a couple of weeks at one of the islands down on the Keys.

That sounds interesting, said John. Did they know which one?

I think it was said to be Plantation Key, said the girl. It’s about halfway down the Keys.

I might look it up, said John. It was the best information he had and it was worth a try.

John was hoping he could talk Cloe into going with him. He went back to her and said, You look a bit better.

She said, I feel it.

He sat down beside her, and said, How would you like to come down the Keys with me. I have some investigation to do halfway down at Plantation Key?

That might be fun. I haven’t got much on at the moment, Cloe said.

CHAPTER 2

At the marina in Sarasota, The Orpheus, a super yacht, was moored. It is a fine ship some one hundred yards long. It had accommodation for six couples, a galley fit for the Ritz Hotel, and it was worth millions of dollars. It is owned by the Lewis family. They earned their money in property, although Eddy is also an attorney with an office in Sarasota and enjoyed the good life. Now they had gotten to the age of sixty-five, they spent most of the year cruising around in the Caribbean. They also had a trade on the side of drug running. They got into it some years ago when money was tight, and once in there, was no getting out. On this trip they were on their own, just Eddy and Florence Lewis, or Mum and Dad, as they liked to be called. Although the ship would hold twelve guests, they did not want to be seen on this trip so they went on their own. Eddy was a very capable seaman. They always did their own navigating on these trips.

They had always made special care to be on friendly terms with the Coast Guards. They supported their charities and always made a point of stopping and greeting them out at sea.

They had filled the ship with provisions, went through the usual procedures with customs and immigration, and filed their itinerary as going to the British Virgin Islands, calling at Tortola, then sailing in those seas for a week, finally returning to the US in two to three weeks’ time. All the paperwork was completed and they set sail out of the marina. The route took them down the Gulf Coast. It was the month of May, before the official hurricane season had started, and the evenings were still light. They sailed around the topside of Cuba and out into the Atlantic Ocean, sailing past the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. Shortly after, they went past the US Virgin Islands and onto the British Virgins. Tortola is a beautiful undeveloped island. The view, as you approach the dock, is stunning. Just behind the small town, the mountain rises up steeply with a rainforest on the top. Eddy thought if they had more time, he would like to hire a car and drive around the island. They docked at the main harbor next to the cruise liners. They went into town to the Customs House and registered their passports. They told the officer they were going to spend a week sailing around the BVI.

That will be fine, said the officer, you don’t need to check in at any of the other islands.

They made a point that evening of being seen in as many tourist places as they could, so that they could be recognized if necessary. They spent a special time in Pussers Bar—this is one of Eddy’s favorite haunts, being the only source of British Navy rum—before going back to the ship.

The next morning at 5 a.m. they cast off and headed out to sea, but they headed in a southwest direction to the shores of Colombia. The coast as they left was beautiful. All the islands in that region are mountainous and verdant. Most have rainforests, where the vegetation is completely different. It was a two-day journey to Colombia, and they had a pleasant run down there, doing very little except sunbathing and drinking, always gin and tonic at 4 p.m. They had a prearranged meeting off the coast of Cartagena, but outside territorial waters. The ship had a homing device so that the fishing boat that was to meet them could find them easily, and sure enough, at 11 p.m., a fishing smack pulled up alongside The Orpheus. The fisherman got onto the steps at the side of The Orpheus and climbed up. He was struggling as he was carrying two, what looked like, very heavy suitcases. A good haul, said Eddy to his wife. The fisherman dropped the cases down on the deck with a thump, then proceeded to go down to his boat and bring up two more. No money passed hands, which was all dealt with by international banking. Eddy opened the suitcases to make sure there was something inside and sure enough, the cases were stuffed full of bags of heroin.

The two men shook hands and the fisherman left the ship, and his boat headed back to the mainland at all speed. Eddy turned The Orpheus and headed off