On Jamaica Government Service: Adam Emerson Novel, #2

By Dane Andrew

Blood in the streets and bodies wrapped in sheets; the Wickedest City on Earth is reviving its savage history. Residents no longer trust outsiders; a serious problem, since they are the source of the town's livelihood: Tourism.

Adam Emerson once again finds himself thrust into an explosive situation, partly of his own making. A stark reminder that no good deed goes unpunished. Blackmailed to undertake an operation way outside his comfort zone, he is now forced to navigate the dangerous world of illicit antiquities and human trafficking, all while attempting to gather information on his puppet master.

With his friends' lives at risk, he's left with a harrowing choice; do as commanded, in the hopes of saving them or find a way to cut the strings.

In the midst of it all, the most important person in his life goes missing, forcing him to make a third choice; or no choice at all.

From the picturesque landscapes of the Caribbean to the magnificent edifices of the Middle East; at every turn, the risks outweigh the rewards and every course of action has only two likely outcomes: prison or death.

With the help of newfound allies, Adam digs deep into his reservoir of lethal training, but only time will tell if it is enough to save the ones he cares for and outsmart the Architect of this humanitarian crisis.

Taken meets Ninja Assassin in this second instalment of the Adam Emerson franchise.

 

Go get your copy of On Jamaica Government Service, then hang on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dane Andrew
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224722921

Book preview

More adventures featuring Adam Emerson

The Martial Art

ON JAMAICA GOVERNMENT SERVICE

An Adam Emerson Novel

DANE ANDREW

Copyright © 2023 by Dane Andrew

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, visit the contact page for Dane Andrew at

https://daneandrew.net

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Dj Danskter

Illustrations by Dj Danskter

Edited by Josiene Brown Nelson

First edition 2023

For more in the world of Dane Andrew visit:

https://daneandrew.net

Follow Dane Andrew on:

@daneandrew876

Imprint: Independently published

ISBN-13: 9798393832988 - Paperback

ISBN-13: 9798393833558 - Hardcover

This one is for the fans.

You have been a source of inspiration and courage.

You make it all worth it.

Thank you.

Dane

17th Century Map of Port Royal

Prologue

June 7, 1692.

Port Royal

Jamaica

11:30 a.m.

T

here is power in the knowledge you can survive anything and humility knowing that anything can survive you.

Another wave pummelled the ship’s hull; fingers of spray clawing at the bow, eager to join the witnesses gathered for the unfolding spectacle.

The crew of the Drunken Maiden amassed on the deck of the ironically named vessel. The second rule aboard was: no drinking while at sea. Keen awareness, a principal requirement of the skipper.

The number one rule; the reason for the gathering.

Congratulations on your promotion. Exactly when was it again?

I… I wasn’t Cap’n.

"But that can’t be. The rules aboard my ship…. I mean your ship, are clear. Only the captain distributes the spoils.

So, when the First Mate discovered you down in the hold, there could only be one logical conclusion. You’re our new captain.

The surrounding crew joined the captain’s slow, unenthusiastic applause.

Cap’n please, I’m sorry. I was just looking. I wouldn’t take anything, I swear. It all just looked so, so good. I just had to touch it, feel it in my hand, that’s all,

"Well, I hope it was worth it. I know the crew thinks so; they’ll be getting your share.

Pick him up.

Trussed up like a deer on a pole between two of his former pirate comrades, they hoisted him on their shoulders and followed their true captain down the gangplank onto the beach.

His unimpeded view of the clear blue sky provided assurance; there would be no rain today. Normally sailors welcome this weather, but today for him, it became a cruel joke.

Mr Bastian, though your life may have been insignificant; your death shall serve a higher calling, your screams shall reverberate our creed, the pirates’ number one rule.

The fire pit crackled; the incoming sacrifice eagerly anticipated. Residents gathered for the show.

The wickedest city on earth had a blood-lust rivalled by none. Public discipline intoxicated them; death, their favourite brew.

This man is a thief. I know many of you may think, ‘but we’re pirates, we’re all thieves. But piracy has rules, a code. What is it?

We steal from them, never from each other. A chorus from the crowd.

"Let his death be a lesson to anyone harbouring similar thoughts.

Roast him!!

They ascended the steps and dropped the spit atop the designated brackets, suspending their quarry inches from the flames.

Please, please, mercy, please.

His appeal left his mouth as screams; drowned out by the cheers of the crowd.

He thrashed his limbs frantically; escape this inferno, the only thought consuming his mind as the fire consumed him.

His clothes caught fire; his skin peeling. The pain inspiring further erratic movement. Eventually, his efforts bore fruit; the brackets began teetering, dancing out of the ground.

For the first time, someone successfully displaced the torture device.

He has a powerful will to live; I swear I feel the earth moving.

Before the onlookers’ friend could respond to his statement, he felt trembling as well.

That’s not him. Look at the tavern; it’s wobbling like a whorehouse headboard.

Soon enough, Bastian’s plight became irrelevant; everyone took off running.

The shaking earth dumped the thief onto the sand, away from the flames; much to his relief.

He rolled on the cool shore, dousing what remained of his singed garment melded to his coagulating skin. He slid off the pole and undid the ropes on his feet. Unlike everyone else, he ran toward the sea.

To the ship.

Up the gangplank; down to the hold. Once again, after the treasure.

Captain Cataline watched the half-roasted pig scamper up the gangplank.

Damn scoundrel won’t quit; he was always a determined son of a bitch.

The shaking increased in intensity; she took off running. Leading; her usual role, but this time, she followed the crowd. Ignorant and indifferent to their destination.

Just run.

Buildings crumbled to their foundations, while tree roots experienced the light of day for the first time; violently yanked from the Earth. The ground beneath her feet, rubbery; making purchase near impossible, discounting her usual high speed.

A rare breed indeed; a female captain. Rarer still, her ruthlessness; gender aside. Known on the high seas as the Plague, Cataline inspired fear and loyalty in equal measure. Her crew swarmed their quarry with the ferocity of locusts. Consuming everyone and everything in its path.

Famous for leaving no survivors; their legend grew from rumours and exaggerated stories from inebriated crew members; when at last they could drink.

Legends, stories and rumours were no match for the seven-point five magnitude earthquake rolling through the pirate haven. The captain sprinted from cover to cover; each collapsing in their attempt to take as many lives as possible. Hers numbered among them.

If this is God’s retribution for the city’s transgressions; Cataline is a high value target. She had no place to hide.

The realisation came crashing down; as she witnessed her last viable refuge disintegrating, crushing women, children, and the rest of her crew.

Her feet stopped moving; the futility of the act inspired her decision. Further running became pointless.

Mother Nature had won; her ultimate goal achieved. The ground beneath Cataline’s feet yawned like a famished hyena; grateful for the long-awaited meal.

The ferocious female captain with her sun-burnt skin and blue-grey eyes, distressed long brown hair, intermittently plaited by one of her paid suitors. A bulbous tipped nose and thin lips, nestled in a heart-shaped face, would have been right at home in the English royal court. Her path, however, took her to the sea.

Having to prove herself worthy, she worked twice as hard as any man, eventually leading a mutiny against her weak captain, and those that stood with him. This would be her first all-consuming offensive, earning her the moniker, the Plague.

Now, the Plague, along with half the city and its inhabitants, succumbed to the determined ocean.

During her brief life; only thirty years old, she held the blood-soaked history of a man twice her age.

The number of souls disembodied by her sword, dagger and pistol.

The tax-free loot she amassed over her illustrious career.

The long-held secret she took to her watery grave.

None of these filled her mind in the last moments; instead, a single thought.

I should’ve gone down with my ship.

◆◆◆

Bastian searched the hold for his prize. His aspirations were far greater than merely touching the treasure, nothing so juvenile. He successfully sold the lie to his captain. He had something specific, more significant in mind.

The last ship they looted belonged to a wealthy merchant. Someone rumoured to be a close acquaintance of Mary II, joint ruler of England, alongside William III.

Far from public knowledge, this information graced very few ears; his included.

A happy accident.

The pirate scoured taverns and brothels across the Caribbean, gathering intel; debauchery weakened inhibitions and loosened tongues. This routine occasionally paid high dividends.

As it did that day.

The sailing master of this ship had a special love for prostitutes; well, one in particular.

No one could fathom the spell she’d cast on him. Never in danger of being described as a looker, gained her the unofficial title, Last Resort. When the brothel overflowed with more buyers than sellers and the clientele embodied desperation; she might be called upon.

Therefore, her favourite customer never needed to wait.

Laying in the arms of his beloved; he regaled her with stories of his voyages and his cargo.

On this night, Bastian indulged himself in wine and women; his espionage produced discouraging results. No one spoke; only fucking and snoring.

His washboard abs and taut, sinewy muscles gave him the pick of the lot in the brothel. The hawk nose and piercing eyes, accentuated by the canvas of his triangle-shaped face, provided.

Today he went with the newest addition to the collection, a raven-haired beauty with an ample bosom and full lips.

His strumpet’s room, like all the others; had paper-thin walls. A wall shared with the Last Resort, normally an unoccupied space. Her light breathing and deep sleep reflected the ferocity of his performance; pounding her as if the intelligence he sought lay deep within her cervix. He need only dig hard enough.

Sleep eluded him; so, he listened. The music drifting from the parlour below, a soundtrack of his misadventure. A month had passed since the crew’s last raid.

The Plague needed sustenance.

He glanced at the sleeping prostitute next to him; the smile on her face would please another, but not him. To him, it was a mocking grin; a reminder of his failure.

He slid out of bed and dragged on his pants; he couldn’t stomach another second in her presence. Bastian rummaged through his pockets; his disappointment notwithstanding, he deposited her going rate on the nightstand.

A reputation as a welcher would travel faster than rumours of buried treasure; his spying days would be over, also, no more rum and pussy.

Part of her payment slipped through his fingers and rolled across the floor, ending at the shared wall.

Bastian walked over to retrieve it; then came the sweetest sound.

… and remember, you can’t repeat what I’m about to tell you.

Of course not, baby.

Alright. The owner of the ship, my boss, is friends with Mary II. I heard she gave him a letter in person with explicit instructions to hand deliver it to Acting Governor White. We’ll be sailing in the next three months.

So, what’s so important about this letter?

I heard the queen is wary of the pirates and that the letter contains her authority for the governor to put an end to activities, ‘By any means necessary’.

Why would she need to send that in secret? They all want an end to the looting.

Not at all. Remember, pirates primarily target Spanish ships. An arrangement created by England to ensure they never lose control over the region and, apart from isolated incidents, the pirates have stuck to the deal.

Then why would she want to put a stop to it? It benefits her country.

Everyone knows the queen to be light-hearted and gentle, and a major conflict with Spain is inevitable if the piracy continues. She aims to bridge the gap by offering to end the piracy, in exchange for peaceful co-existence.

Bastian didn’t need to hear anymore. Possessing that letter would provide the bearer with significant leverage, enough to leave this life before life left him.

The task before him, convince his captain to plunder the ship. His new occupation for the next three months, shadow of the Last Resort’s favourite customer; only customer.

He dug through the chests; dashing aside, emeralds and pearls and gold coins. None of that mattered. Only the letter.

He recognised it immediately. The leather pouch emblazoned with the queen’s seal; a gold lock clamped to the front flap.

Where the fuck is the key?

The ship rocked violently, throwing him onto the deck; his path to salvation slid under the wheel of a cannon.

His back reminding him he possessed less skin.

Shit.

The rolling continued.

How can an earthquake affect the ship?

He scrambled to his feet and covered the distance to the cannon with two steps. Bastian grabbed the pouch and attempted to stuff it down the back of his pants; another reminder.

Fuck!!!

It went down the front instead.

To hell with the key.

Up the steps and onto the main deck. He received the answer to his question.

The earthquake caused a tsunami; it towered above the ship, blocking out the sun.

There goes the beautiful day.

The thief had to decide; stay on or get off.

In the end, he chose the sailor’s route; after all, he wasn’t the captain. Moments before the wave inundated the vessel, Bastian vaulted over the side rail and dived head-on into the oncoming wall of water; the pouch still securely tucked in his waist.

Part One

Prominence

You don’t have to Stand Out to be Outstanding.

Dane Andrew

1

Meet & Greet

Upper St Andrew

Kingston, Jamaica

January 10, 2015

Day 1 - 8:30 a.m. (GMT -5)

W

hy am I here? Your letter was cryptic; threatening, really."

Adam Emerson sat across from the author of the document; having received it a few weeks prior.

How this man could find him remained a mystery; the contents, however, left no doubt as to the consequences of non-compliance.

The deadpan look in his eyes, more akin to a boring staff meeting rather than a hunter stalking his quarry; how Adam regarded him.

His pompous posture, highlighted by the backdrop of his reflective-white book shelf, brimming with volumes; all non-fiction and all related either to family history or genealogy.

This tracked with what Adam’s research into the man had unearthed. Decorative vases provided balance to the space, completed by a bronze bust placed top centre.

The leather chair, crisp white shirt, and perfectly trimmed hair made it easy to dislike him.

Mr Emerson, my apologies if you felt threatened. I just need your help.

"So, instead of asking, like a normal person, you said, how did you put it? ‘You can’t guarantee the police won’t receive Patrick’s address, if I’m unable to help’."

Patrick, the childhood friend he’d come to for help. Help he offered without hesitation; though it nearly cost him his life. Added to that, his methods were not a hundred per cent legal.

His source of income; the reason his address remains a closely guarded secret. The fact Adam received the letter at said address; a significant cause for concern.

Sounds a lot like a threat.

No, not at all. I was simply incentivising you. Couldn’t risk you saying no. I need your help.

Help with what? You keep saying that, but you still haven’t told me. Why? The fuck? Am I here? Adam gripped his knees; keeping his hands occupied; no telling what they might get up to.

"In nineteen fifty-four, Walt Disney himself visited Jamaica, supposedly as part of research for a theme park he wanted to build on the island. His primary focus; Port Royal.

You know the ride, Pirates of the Caribbean?

He took Adam’s deadpan stare; a reflection of his own, as acknowledgement and his cue to continue.

Apparently, Disney wanted to build that attraction in the actual location where all the thievery and debauchery took place. Like Williamsburg, Virginia, in the US, I’m sure you’ve heard of that.

Another nothing.

"Okay, so the story is, Walt got inspiration from that and planned to create something similar here in Jamaica.

Visitors could experience what it was like during the peak of The Wickedest City on Earth. He made air quotes.

Adam leaned back in his seat, folding his arms; running out of ways to keep them engaged. His stare; unchanging.

"I know, I know, what’s this all got to do with you? I’m getting to that. So, turns out it was just a rumour. Disney may have got inspiration for his ride from his sunken city visit, but had no intention of doing it here; he wanted it back home.

"Anyway, rumour turned to speculation, speculation to facts and facts to planning; Chinese telephone.

"Key influential people started counting money they were certain would start pouring in and the biggest earner; real estate.

"It was a buying frenzy; they started scooping up property left and right. Those they couldn’t buy out, they burnt out; if that didn’t work, people turned up missing or dead.

"When the dust settled and planning reverted to rumour; the new land owners eventually had to resell the properties to the residents that stayed or survived at a massive discount. They kept a few parcels, which they later converted to hotels and commercial properties.

Now, to your question. Why you’re here? I believe it’s happening again.

What, killings? Missing people? Why?

He threw down a manilla file folder; bold letters across the top: CONFIDENTIAL.

Adam skimmed through the folder, then back to the first page; studying the executive summary.

A cruise ship destination?

That’s the hope, but this isn’t the first discussion about redevelopment; legitimate or not, only time will tell.

Adam leaned forward; eyebrows pulled together.

Another land grab?

That’s what I believe. I just can’t prove it.

Why do you care? It’s good that someone does, but what’s your motivation?

"I was born on Cannon Street, in Port Royal. My mother birthed me in a one-bedroom shack with the help of a mid-wife.

"She didn’t survive my arrival; my father blamed me. I spent my teenage years trying to get away from that place. Excelled in school, received scholarships, anything and everything I had to do just to get away. Eventually accepting a fellowship abroad.

Then a conversation with my mentor changed my life forever.

Adam continued to stare at his blackmailer.

But that’s a story for another time; point is, I realised I was running away for the wrong reasons, instead of fighting for the right ones.

"You have yet to answer my question. How did that lead to me? Setting aside how you found me, why in God’s name would you choose me? I haven’t lived here in decades and I’ve only ever been to Port Royal once in my life. I remember the Giddy House; that’s it."

"I should’ve explained myself better; you’re not my first choice. I’ve hired two private investigators, one local, the other from England; both have gone missing. That’s why I hired you. To find them."

For the first time, Adam displayed an emotion besides contempt; failing to stifle his laugh.

"So, your investigators have gone missing, and, let me guess, no one else will take the job. So, here comes Adam, someone you can manipulate and threaten into doing your bidding.

If anyone hasn’t told you recently; you’re a piece of shit. Fuck off!!

Adam rose and turned to the door; his fury threatening to overwhelm his restraint. This man’s face looked more and more punchable by the minute.

Man, a generous description.

Mr Emerson, please have a look at this.

He produced another folder; no labels this time. Inside, Adam found photos of Patrick in conversation with another man standing before a table, stacked high with packages he correctly assumed were illegal drugs.

"The man next to your friend is the leader of a local gang, calling themselves John Crows; no idea how they come up with these things.

"He’s wanted on several counts, including armed robbery, assault, murder, and, of course, narcotics trafficking. The police will surely take Patrick into custody if they get their hands on this photo.

"That little shootout you and your friend were involved in a few months ago got caught on camera. At the moment, local police haven’t been able to identify either victims or assailants; thanks to me.

If you choose not to help me, I’ll simply have to choose not to help him; quid pro quo.

Adam envisioned the fear in the man’s eyes as he wrapped his hands around the bastard’s throat, squeezing the life from him. Gently persuading him to reconsider his recruitment tactics.

He extinguished the inferno and returned to the chair; though the fury remained in his glare.

"All I’m asking is for you to go down there and have a look around; interact with the locals; be a tourist. Then, if the opportunity presents itself; ask a few questions. Tell them you’re looking for a friend of yours, doesn’t matter which one; whatever you unearth for one, should apply to the other.

"If you strike out, so be it. I just want you to try. Been keeping track of you ever since the shootout and I’m well aware of your talents. Being my third choice is not a reflection on your skills as an investigator, but I speak in currency, and based on your recent choices, I know money doesn’t sway you. So, I sought solutions elsewhere.

That being said, I’ll compensate you for your efforts; it’s only fair.

He retrieved an envelope from a drawer and placed it before Adam. Adam scowled at the envelope briefly, thereafter returning to the source of his discontent.

"I don’t want your fucking money. Give me all the info you have; names and photos of the other two, and anything else you have that might help. I’m sure you have my