Poison Wind (Jackson Chase Novella Book 3) Read online

  Poison Wind

  Jackson Chase Novella No. 3

  Connor Black

  Contents

  Copyright

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part 2

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part 3

  Chapter 11

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Connor Black

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, and places are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this story may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means—by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission from the author.

  Poison Wind—Jackson Chase Novella No. 3

  Copyright © 2016 Connor Black

  I

  Cover photo by tipinfo via flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)

  Created with Vellum

  Part I

  Porto Cervo, Sardinia

  1

  The white Mercedes pulled to the outer edge of the roundabout and came to a gentle stop. The rear passenger door opened, and Ivan Vatchenko stepped out and looked down the quay. Seeing me leaning against a storage locker a few slips away, he raised his hand in a brief wave.

  I returned the gesture and then blew into my coffee before taking a hesitant sip. It had gone cold more than an hour ago, but it would be best if I appeared to have only just arrived.

  Vatchenko turned back to the car and reached into the back seat. I had hoped it was for his briefcase, but instead he appeared to be helping someone out of the car. One attractive leg appeared, followed by another. Vatchenko was known to have frequent female companionship, most of it of the paid variety. Apparently one such companion would be joining us for the day.

  As she stepped out into the mid-morning sun, it was clear that she was rather young. By her frail figure, I would have put her between eighteen and twenty. Far too young for the fifty-something Russian. She wore a colorful scarf over her hair like women do more on a misty day in Paris than on a sunny Mediterranean dock. Perhaps it was to make her appear older. A few strands of dark hair escaped the confines of the scarf, but with the large sunglasses she wore, there was little chance to see her face. The wind pressed against a cobalt blue cover-up, revealing slightly more than it was perhaps designed for.

  What struck me wasn’t so much her appearance as the way she held herself. She stepped forward with a slow, uncomfortable stiffness, almost awkward. A slight stumble gave me cause to believe that some sort of substance may have been partially to blame.

  Behind them, a man emerged from the front passenger door. If there was a stereotype of an Eastern European security man, he would have matched the model exactly: large in a way that showed he used to be tough, but age and rich foods hadn’t been kind. The morning sun reflected off his bald head, and added shadows that accentuated his pocked skin. By the line on the side of his untucked shirt, I could tell he had a sidearm. But more importantly, he held the briefcase.

  Vatchenko took the girl’s arm and led her down the pier to where I stood. He was dressed as a yacht owner does in Porto Cervo when out for a day’s sail: tan slacks, spotless off-white deck shoes, and powder-blue polo. But as in Valencia, Antibes, and the other places frequented during the high season, these articles of clothing had a bit of a sheen to them, perhaps to justify that extra zero in the price.

  As he made his way towards me, I took another sip from my coffee, observing. Ivan Vatchenko was not an attractive man. His polo was just a bit too tight, bulging over his belt. And despite the wind blowing across the quay, his hair wasn’t moving. I took this to mean he used some sort of gel there. But that’s not something I know much about. I’m more of a ‘rub it with a towel and call it done’ sort of guy.

  “Jackson. It is very good to see you,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.

  “Good to see you as well, Mr. Vatchenko,” I replied.

  “Please, call me Ivan.”

  “Ivan it is then.”

  “And this is Anika,” Vatchenko continued, introducing the young woman. “Anika, please meet Jackson Chase. He designed and built Trance for me.”

  Trance was the beautiful 44-meter sloop that rested gently in the dark water next to us. She was a stunning yacht built by my family’s business in New Zealand. As for me designing and building it, that wasn’t terribly accurate given that I am more of an absent figurehead at the shipyard than anything else. But I let it go.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anika,” I said, offering my hand. Her grip was cold. Behind her, the security man passed wordlessly. He stepped aboard and went quickly belowdecks.

  “Da,” was her muttered reply.

  The captain, Hans Larsson, arrived at the stern, putting an end to the awkward introduction. He was not tall, perhaps five-eight on a good day, but had a dense, sturdy build. Combined with his leathery skin, it was obvious he’d spent much of his life at sea.

  “And you met Hans in France, I believe,” said Vatchenko.

  “I did, along with his wonderful wife, Linnea.”

  “Who is presently below preparing lunch,” said Hans.

  He went on to recap the preparations that had been made for the day’s sail. Soon after, a rather large figure emerged from the aft hatch. He stood next to Hans and wiped his hands with a rag.

  “Hello, Mr. Vatchenko!” the newcomer said with a smile.

  “Ah, Joe! I didn’t know you’d be joining us today,” said Vatchenko.

  “Your assistant back at the office called last night and said the background and references on Joe came out fine,” Hans explained. “I took the liberty of asking him to join us today for a bit of a shakedown cruise.”

  “Marvelous,” replied Vatchenko. Turning to me, he explained. “Joe Staley found us last week after we arrived in port and inquired about a crewing position. I thought we could use an extra hand for the regatta. And if he proves himself, we would discuss keeping him on.”

  “Nice to meet you, Joe,” I said. “Sounds like a hands-on interview for you today.”

  The large man nodded and then turned to the captain and said, “Fluid levels in the engines look good. She’s ready to go.”

  “Great. Let’s get everyone aboard and get the engines started,” Hans replied.

  A gentle puff of wind came in from my right. As the new deckhand, Joe, helped Anika and Vatchenko aboard, I stayed put.

  “Come on, then, Mr. Chase,” said Hans, wondering why I hadn’t hopped aboard.

  Down the long quay, several of the superyachts showed activity. Like us, they were heading out with their owners to practice for the upcoming Loro Piana Superyacht Regatta. The Loro Piana trophy was one of the most coveted among the ultra-competitive owners of these massively expensive yachts. And while Trance was newly launched and not a regular on the scene here, local scuttlebutt had her as a favorite.

  I looked up to the top of Trance’s mast and watched the wind meter for a moment. Or perhaps longer, because when I lowered my eyes, everyone was standing on the stern, staring at me.

  “What do you say we skip the engines and sail off the quay?” I said. “Put on a little show.”

  Vatchenko looked puzzled. He was new to the superyacht world, but knew
that motoring out of port and into the open water of the harbor before setting sail was standard practice. Most skippers wouldn’t even consider sailing off the dock in anything more than a day sailer, and even then only if they were side-on with an onshore breeze. Trance measured a monstrous 44 meters long, and she was stern-to in a busy harbor. But I grew up sailing dinghies off crowded, oily docks. The conditions today felt perfect.

  “Really?” asked Hans. Questioning, but I could see a bit of liveliness in the corners of his eyes.

  “Nice breeze abeam, no one to leeward. It would give these blokes something to worry about before the racing starts,” I replied, thumbing over to the other boats preparing to sail, knowing that none of them would even dare.

  Hans gave a cheeky smile. “I like it.”

  “Are you both serious?” Vatchenko asked. He was worried about his new twenty million dollar toy.

  There was, of course, plenty to worry about today, the least of which was Trance. But for now, I was excited to have a little fun. I felt myself being taken back to all the years I had spent as a child sailing with my parents and grandparents—the very ones who started the company that built this beautiful yacht. I could practically hear my grandfather spurring me on.

  I sprang up the gangplank and gave Vatchenko a slap on the shoulder. “C’mon, Ivan, this will be fun,” I said. Before he could protest, I made my way forward to go over preparations with Hans.

  Standing at the starboard helm not much later, I reached over the wheel and sent a command to the electric furler on the jib to release a touch of sail and get a little pressure on the two lines to the dock.

  “Bit of jib only, Joe,” Hans said into a radio behind me.

  Hans was on the stern rail, his hand on the tail of a spring line. Joe was at the bow, manning a line doubled back to the quay that would pressure up shortly. A second deckhand, an energetic young Italian named Dario, stood at the mast. Joe’s acknowledgment came in the form of two breaks in squelch. Not the type of reply your average deckhand would give, but Vatchenko didn’t appear to notice.

  He sat on one of the L-shaped settees in front of the helms, holding a glass of champagne. This was a superyacht after all, and he was soaking in his role as owner, watching the crew go about a complex maneuver. Next to him, Anika sat stiffly. She hadn’t said a word the whole time we prepared to get underway and appeared to be entirely uninterested.

  “Go board,” I said, more to myself than anyone, given that I was the one pressing the button on the control panel before me. But the habits of sailors and aviators to verbalize operations die hard. Beneath me came only the slightest vibration in the hull as a meter-and-a-half of centerboard was hydraulically lowered. We could do without it, but we had the water, and it would give us a better line out. A subtle thump let me know it was down and seated.

  I reached for the bow stay furler control and turned back to Hans. “Ready?” I asked.

  He nodded and then spoke into the handheld. “Go main. Go jib.” I pressed the button that would unfurl the jib, and Dario simultaneously triggered the main. The main could have been controlled at the helm as well, but I wanted a crewman at the mast.

  The sheets were loose, allowing the sails to move a bit as they came out into the late morning sun. When the sails were nearly unfurled, I brought in the sheets rather abruptly. The main gave a low and rather loud thunk, enough that Vatchenko jumped. The jib followed suit, and he turned to me, eyebrows raised.

  “Just a little snap to get some attention,” I said, raising my chin towards the crews on the yachts nearby who had popped their heads up at the noise.

  Tension came into the helm immediately. Beneath my feet, the hull went taught, ready to pounce. The line to the bow gave a groan from the strain of holding Trance back.

  “Hold,” I said, knowing Hans was waiting for my command to relay to Joe. I used the touchscreen in front of the helm to adjust the shape of the sails slightly. The aft spring line creaked with the additional pressure. She was like a bull knowing the gate would pop open any second.

  I felt the slightest puff of additional breeze on my cheeks. It was just what I was waiting for.

  “Go stern. Go bow,” I said, clearly and calmly. Hans released his line and gave the command to Joe. Freed from her restraints, Trance leapt from the quay, accelerating at a rate that was rather surprising given her massive weight. But what was truly beautiful was the fact that we leapt ahead in near silence. The only sound was the water flowing down the sides of her midnight-blue hull.

  “Bloody show off!” I heard someone shout from the deck of a nearby yacht.

  I let out a laugh and gave a wave in return. Even Vatchenko savored the moment, letting out a hearty cheer. Notice had been given that Trance and her crew weren’t ones to mess about.

  Joe came aft from the bow and gave a thumbs up. I smiled, and inclined my chin towards the main hatch. He gave a small nod and went below. Hans took the helm soon after, leading us out of the harbor and into the sapphire-blue waters.

  We set about the business of the day, a dance between tips on racing this tremendously large and beautiful sailing yacht and the handholding a wealthy owner likes to receive. Hans, I’d learned, had plenty of experience on superyachts, but I put on a show of walking him through details with Vatchenko in such a way that the Russian would come to appreciate the boat he’d commissioned. We worked on various maneuvers with the wind in different positions, talking about the timing required in boats far longer than your typical day racer.

  After a tack to starboard, I moved with Hans to the windward helm. Together, we talked through some of the more delicate sail trimming controls on the control panel. Vatchenko listened intently, absorbing how to get the most out of his newest prize. The girl was less than interested. She leaned in to speak to Vatchenko, clearly wanting to be excused from another hour of talk about sail shape and yacht engineering.

  “Da, da,” he said and gave her a dismissive wave towards the hatch that led to the cabin below. As a second thought, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close. I watched her wince, her body tense and in some sort of pain. He put his hand on her cheek and gave her a kiss. She accepted it reluctantly, like a tariff. When he withdrew his hand to let her go, it shifted her sunglasses slightly. I caught a glimpse of purple around her eye before she turned her head away, confirming my suspicion that he’d been abusing the poor girl.

  Seeing my opening, I said, “Let me show you the secondary controls on the mast, Ivan.”

  I kept a spring in my step as I led him forward, ever the professional sailor.

  “These controls,” I said as we arrived at the base of the 51-meter mast, “are secondary to the main panels at the helms. We build these boats for sailing under extreme circumstances, and we know that when you’re in weather, you often need control from up here as well.”

  “Jackson,” he said, “you can be sure it will be the crew up here in challenging weather, not me. My hope is that I will be in the master cabin below, preferably with some entertainment.”

  “Like with Anika?”

  “Da. She is quite beautiful, don’t you think?” he asked, his smile dripping with filth.

  I smiled back at him. “She is beautiful, Ivan,” I said.

  “She was a gift from a business associate.”

  “A gift?” I asked.

  “Well, perhaps more of a way to keep my attention off some money he owes me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Joe coming up from below. We caught eyes and he gave a small nod.

  I turned back to Vatchenko, who had bent over to look at the small control panel.

  “I’m afraid, Ivan, that you won’t beat a girl less than half your age again, you fat bastard,” I said.

  Still bent down, he turned his head to look up at me, his eyes suddenly venomous. Vatchenko was a man who felt that money made for power, and that his power was not to be challenged, especially by someone so much lower on the food chain. I saw the calculation go throug
h his eyes. Did I need a verbal dressing down or a physical confrontation? His eyes narrowed, showing his raw bully roots were winning out. One of his thick hands closed into a fist, and he slowly began to rise. With considerable speed and quite a bit of force, I brought my hand from around my waist, palmed the side of his head and slammed it into the mast.

  He fell to the deck like a sack of potatoes. Seventeen stone of Russian bear, felled in one blow. Had to be a record.

  Joe stepped over some rigging and stood next to me.

  “I think I used too much hip,” I said, looking down. Vatchenko clearly wasn’t going to come-to for a while, and it would be days before the headache would be bearable.

  “After I saw the black eye on the girl, we looked her over to see if she needed any specific medical attention. She’s covered with bruises all around the torso, so they’d be hidden when she dressed,” Joe said. “He deserved all of that and more.”

  2

  I guess at this point it’s clear that I’m not exactly a builder of extravagant superyachts. Yes, the particular boat we were on was built by my family’s shipyard in New Zealand, but that was more of a coincidence that we had taken full advantage of than anything.

  I actually work for the U.S. Director of National Intelligence. I’m part of a very small team with no name, created to be an anonymous, nimble, and sharp tool bridging the gap between intelligence and military action. As a dual citizen of both the U.S. and New Zealand, I’ve had the privilege to serve with the militaries of both countries. While my designator with the U.S. Navy is aviator, the Director is quite clear that it’s my experience with the New Zealand Army that caught his eye.

  To be honest, my first few days in the Kiwi army weren’t the best. I’d been placed there by an uncle who felt I needed a wakeup call following the death of my parents. But I attacked the assignment with vigor. I grew stronger and more determined every day, every month, and every year, eventually being selected to serve in New Zealand Special Air Service. I served with the NZSAS for many years, and while my sand beret and blue belt are packed away, I still carry the skills of a tier one operator.