Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [50]
“Special Agent Tyler, you’d better turn that boat around and head back to shore. A storm is rolling in, and it won’t be pretty. By the way, didn’t your daddy tell you fishing is an art. The first rule is you need bait. There’s no bait on your hook. Those people on the beach know you don’t have a bucket of bait on board.” The voice clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Dead giveaway, Special Agent Tyler.”
Tyler felt his stomach start to grind as his gaze raked the open water. There were no boats other than the two Coast Guard cruisers moving up and down the waterway. No one was on the beach. Where the hell was this guy? “I thought we were clear when you called the last time. Piss off, buddy. You want to blackmail me, go for it.” Brave words from a coward. He let his gaze rake the water again. Where the hell was the jerk hiding? Was it possible he was holed up in that mausoleum at the tip of the island? He directed his gaze to the monstrosity but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Okay, so I came on a little strong. I’m not going to yank your chain, Special Agent Tyler. I have information, and I want to sell it. I help you, you help me. Let’s talk. With the info I have, you could very well be the next head of the DEA, administrator of the Drug Enforcement Administration.”
The dark clouds were moving almost at the speed of light. He had to get to shore. If he let the throttle out, he wouldn’t be able to hear on the cell phone. He was surprised he even had reception out here. “Bullshit. If you can see me, then you know I need to get back to shore. I’m hanging up now. I wouldn’t make promises like that either,” Tyler added. Where in the hell have I heard this voice?
Ten minutes later, Tyler did some fancy maneuvering and backed the Sooner or Later into her slip. The same skanky kid reached for the mooring line as he leapt up to the dock. He tipped him ten dollars. Tyler looked around like he didn’t have a care in the world as he made his way to the rental car he’d parked in the lot. He used up another fifteen minutes driving to the bed-and-breakfast where he was staying. Just as he pulled into the small parking lot, rain poured from the sky. His cell phone chirped again.
Though only late in the afternoon, it was darker than night. Thunder and lightning ripped across the sky. A little Florida shower? He wasn’t sure. It might turn out to be a killer storm for all he knew, or it could just be a typical late-afternoon heat shower of the kind Florida was famous for. All he knew for certain was that he was safe and sound and his goddamn cell phone was ringing and the caller was unknown.
Tyler settled himself on one of the white-wicker chairs on the porch and clicked on the phone as the rain continued to come down in torrents. Overhead, the paddle fans fought with the whipping wind. The beautiful graceful ferns hanging from the beams whirled faster than a whirlybird. “What is it you want?” he said into the cell phone, not bothering to identify himself.
“You look nice and comfy on the porch. I always like to watch a wicked storm myself. But to answer your question, I want money. But I don’t want it for nothing. I want to trade what I have for money, but then I already told you that. You know, buying and selling, and you wound my pride when you refer to it as blackmail. I see it as a win for both of us.”
Tyler’s mind was racing a mile a minute. He sure as hell needed a win, right now. He decided to play along to see what he could get. “I need to see something. You have to be aware that, right now, given my current position, I have no access to the kind of money you’re talking about. That means the money you’re wanting for selling me information has to come from my own personal funds, and like I said, I’m not buying a