Pursuing Chase Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Epilogue

  Also By

  About the Author

  Pursuing Chase

  A Chase Hawkins Novel

  (Chase Hawkins Series #2)

  By C.J. Schnier

  The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and no not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Pursuing Chase (A Chase Hawkins Novel)

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright© 2019 CJ Schnier

  V1.0

  CJ Schnier

  S/V Paramour

  St Petersburg, FL 33713

  facebook.com/cjschnier

  Cover Photo © 2019 CJ Schnier

  All rights reserved. Used with permission.

  Cover Design by CJ Schnier

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted,or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Most locations herin are also fictional, or are used fictitiously. However I have made efforts to to depict the location and description of many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, restaurants, and marinas in the boating world to the best of my ability. I’ve tried to convey the cruising attitude in this work.

  Dedication

  To everyone that has read my first book in this series, Under a Smuggler’s Sky. Thank you for your support. Without it I would never have written this second installment. This book is for you.

  Chapter One

  How in the hell did I get myself into this mess? Stranded in an aluminum rowboat off a deserted island in the Bahamas, a hundred miles from anywhere. If that isn't luck, I don't know what is.

  My shoulders burned, and my back ached while my chest heaved with exertion. Sweat had soaked through the shirt I had long since removed and tied around my head. Yet, despite the physical discomfort, I kept pulling at the oars doggedly. In perfect unison, the two oars dipped in the water, pulled the little boat forward, and then swung in an arc to repeat the process. Each stroke was rhythmic and torturous. Some people row for pleasure, but I couldn't help but think that those people are masochistic.

  Pausing to catch my breath, I looked at my surroundings. A vast expanse of clear shallow water stretched from horizon to horizon, broken only occasionally by small sandy islands of scrub brush and cabbage palms. The outer islands of the Bahamas were no place to be stranded. I hadn’t seen another boat in hours, and these islands were much too small to live on. I was truly on my own.

  Glaring at the old Nissan motor bolted to the back of the boat, I cursed the man that had shot a hole through it. The same man that put me in this predicament. Three days ago I was island hopping through the most remote parts of the Bahamas with my beautiful girlfriend aboard my sailboat Paramour. Life had been good. Earlier today I had been forced to watch as my boat sailed away with her on it. Now I was rowing this heap of junk in pursuit of them both. So much for that good life.

  Flexing my fingers to ease the cramping in my hands, I could feel the new blisters that were forming from the repetitive motions of rowing. Paramour had long since sailed over the horizon, and it took all of my will to bend my back to the oars again. Giving up would have been much easier. Instead, I concentrated on aiming the boat for the nearest island, an island which I hoped was frequented by other cruising sailors. Falling back into the rhythm of pull, sweep, pull, I allowed myself to zone-out as the little boat glided through the water.

  An hour later the buzz of an outboard motor and the sounds of waves breaking on the hull of a boat jolted me from my trance. I twisted around gingerly to look behind me, craning my stiff neck to see a gray fiberglass-bottomed inflatable boat. A lone figure silhouetted by the sun was perched in the middle, racing across the shimmering clear waters straight for me. I shipped the oars and let my boat drift as the inflatable danced over the little waves towards me. Two hundred feet away the skipper brought the boat down from a plane and motored alongside me.

  “Hey man, what are you doing way out here? Are you lost or something?” the skipper of the inflatable asked as soon as he came within earshot.

  “Oh I’m just on my way to the Greyhound Station,” I yelled back at him.

  “That would be one hell of a row. Need a lift?”

  “That would be great,” I said, relieved.

  “Why don’t you pass me your painter and then hop on over here? It’ll make towing easier,” the man suggested, grabbing ahold of my boat.

  I dug the painter out of the bottom of the boat and handed it to him. Then I rolled myself out of my boat and into the inflatable. Once I was situated on the pontoon across from him, he tied the end of the line to an eye bolt in his transom and let go of the aluminum dinghy I had spent the last several hours rowing. Twisting the throttle of his outboard, he took my dinghy in tow and headed straight for the larger island I had been making my way towards.

  “The name’s Andy Sheets,” he said sticking out his free hand.

  “Chase Hawkins. Thanks for coming out to get me, Andy,” I replied with a firm shake, despite the protest from the raw blisters on my palm.

  Andy gave me a scrutinizing look, taking in my haggard appearance. Sunburned and shoeless with a ratty shirt wrapped around my head, a full grizzly beard, and tangled brown hair that fell well past my shoulders, I looked like I had been lost at sea for months instead of hours. Andy, on the other hand, seemed relatively clean and well-kept, at least by sailor standards. His balding hair was cropped so short that it was nearly shaved. Salt and pepper stubble covered his friendly sunburned face. Andy struck me immediately as the sort of cruiser I almost always get along well with.

  He wore a dark blue T-shirt that had an outline drawing of a sailboat on it and the name “Romulus” plastered in bold print under it. He was barefoot and had on cheap looking dark sunglasses. In most respects, he seemed to be the average cruiser. I realized that my assumption was wrong, however. Much to my surprise, he wore what appeared to be a plain brown kilt around his waist instead of the ubiquitous shorts that most cruisers wore. That was certainly a first for me, I had never seen a sailor in a kilt.

  “There�
�s some beer in the cooler up there if you want,” he said nodding towards a battered cooler wedged in the bow. “Grab me one if you don’t mind. Oh, there’s some water in there too, I think.”

  “That would be amazing,” I rasped, realizing just how thirsty I was.

  Digging through the ice in the cooler I drew out a bottle of water and gulped half of it down in one long, blissful drink. The cold liquid was shocking, but it felt glorious after a full day in the sun. I took another long sip from the water bottle and dove back in the cooler to fish out two beers. I popped the top on both and handed one to him.

  “Alright I’ve got to ask, the suspense is killing me,” he started. “What the hell are you doing way out here in the middle of nowhere with just a small metal dinghy? A dinghy with a motor that has what looks like a bullet hole in the side of it?”

  “And what are you doing out here in an inflatable boat with a kilt? Looking for a stiff breeze?” I asked, giving him a disarming and friendly wink.

  “Hah! Wouldn’t that be great?” he said laughing. “I was just enjoying a drink in the hammock when I saw you out there rowing. I didn’t see any other boats and figured you may need help. And it looks like you did. So what brings you out here?”

  “I’m not sure you really want to know,” I responded, attempting to avoid the question.

  “Oh come on man! It has to be a hell of a story. What’s the deal?” he persisted.

  Realizing that he wasn’t going to give up, I heaved a heavy sigh of resignation as I collected my thoughts and considered how much to tell this stranger. I settled on the truth or at least some of it.

  “My boat was hijacked,” I said, staring at my reflection in his sunglasses.

  He stared at me in disbelief. “What? Like pirates?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re shittin’ me! Boats get stolen in the Bahamas, sure. Hell, I had a dinghy stolen once myself, but nobody hijacks anything here. It’s just too small of a community,” he countered.

  I held my hands up in defeat. “Hey, you’re the one that wanted to know.”

  “Uh huh,” He said with a disbelieving tone and took a long pull from his beer.

  We were working our way around the island, and as we approached the backside, I could make out the tall masts of a sailboat poking above the trees. Once we had rounded the corner, the boat came into full view. She was a classic beauty. Two large wooden masts stood proud over teak decks and a cream-colored coach house. She had a long bowsprit poking out from her clipper bow, and her white topside paint glowed in the tropical sun, contrasting the brilliant blue hues of the water. I knew this model of boat well, it was in many ways a sister ship to my own.

  “Nice boat. Formosa 41? Or is she a CT?” I asked.

  “Formosa,” he said, pride showing on his face.

  “Gorgeous.”

  Andy nodded and grunted what I took to be a “thanks” as he piloted the inflatable towards the stern of the larger boat. “Romulus” was carved into the wooden name board on the transom in the same font emblazoned across his shirt. Slowing to a crawl, he untied the painter of my dinghy and held it out for me.

  “Here, take this. Once we get alongside the transom go ahead and hop off and tie off your dink. I’ll circle back around and secure this one. Then, we can go down below and talk about why you’re actually out here all alone,” he said.

  Once we were alongside, I leaped out of his dinghy onto the rickety folding ladder slung over the side. Fighting to keep my balance as the ladder threatened to fold in on itself and topple off the side, I finally managed to steady myself and scamper up onto the deck.

  Modern mass-produced sailboats are not my preferred designs when it comes to sailing craft. Yet they do have a few perks geared towards the cruising sailor that older boats didn’t. Walk-through transoms that could be easily boarded from a dinghy was one of them. Vintage craft like Romulus and Paramour had to be boarded from the sides, requiring ladders and a healthy dose of agility.

  Andy waited for me to secure my dinghy to one of the cleats on the stern. Then, he brought his own dinghy up alongside the ladder, killed the engine, and all but leaped aboard without spilling a drop of his beer. This was definitely my kind of sailor.

  “Let’s go below,” he said, leading the way down the companionway stairs and sliding into a seat on the port side.

  I followed him down the stairs, letting my eyes adjust to the darker interior. There was an immaculate galley to starboard. On the port side, Andy was seated at a dinette with a 1911 .45 caliber pistol and two magazines laying on the table in front of him. Forward of that, there was a step down into the salon where two settees sat beneath an open butterfly hatch. Except for a Marine Corps emblem mounted on one wall, and a handful of personal items, the entire salon was clean and orderly, spartan in a precise military way.

  “Expecting company?” I asked, nodding towards the pistol laying on the varnished table.

  “You never can be too careful. Apparently, there are pirates in these waters,” he said, taking another swig of his beer.

  “You’re not going to let this go are you?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he replied immediately.

  “Damn,” I said. “Got any more of that beer? I’m going to need one to tell you about all this.”

  “Fridge is right behind you, help yourself, there’s plenty.”

  Peering into the fridge, I saw that the man was indeed well stocked. Pulling two out, I handed him another as I sat down across from him with my own. Water would have served me better than beer, but it wouldn’t make telling this story any easier.

  “Where would you like me to start?” I asked.

  “How about you tell me how you came to be in the Abacos first, and then we can go from there?”

  “Fair enough. But, if you thought someone hijacking my boat was crazy, you’re going to think I’m insane by the end. You seem like a good guy, maybe once you hear it, you’ll help me.”

  Andy, nonplussed, just stared back at me, waiting patiently for me to start.

  “It all began a few months ago. I was doing some deliveries with my friend Remy up and down the Gulf Coast of Florida. Remy liked to gamble. A lot. On our travels back and forth we used to stop at this underground casino in Bradenton that used a shit-hole marina as a front.”

  “Wait, are you talking about Roulette Remy?” Andy asked.

  “You know him?” I asked surprised.

  “Yeah, I used to run into him from time to time. I’m from the Crystal River area, there aren’t too many other pleasure boat captains up that way. Go on,” he prodded paying closer attention now.

  “Well anyways, as you probably know, Remy has an issue with gambling. They don’t call him Roulette Remy for nothing. One of his debts was somehow transferred on to me. The next thing that I know, I’m being beaten up and coerced into running a drug boat down to the Keys for some unsavory types,” I continued.

  “What kind of unsavory types are we talking about?” he asked interrupting me.

  “Cubans with bad fashion sense and a love of gangster clichés. They forced me to run a trawler full of prescription drugs down to the Keys, but everything went wrong. First, the Coast Guard tried to board us en route. Then, the DEA raided us immediately after we arrived and left my girlfriend Kelly and I with no choice but to rat on the Acosta Cartel.”

  “Who in the hell is the Acosta Cartel?” Andy asked.

  “Santiago Acosta ran that underground casino and was the kingpin behind the drug running. He’s also my girlfriend’s father.”

  “I bet he isn’t happy that you ratted on him.”

  “No, I’m sure he isn’t, and I’m sure that whoever was supplying him is even less pleased. That bust shut down an entire distribution ring in the Keys, plus the supply line from Bradenton. The cartel is out at least a quarter million in drug money, and the blame seems to have fallen on my girlfriend, Kelly. Since she turned on the family business, we’ve had to keep an eye out and
look over our shoulders. I thought we had gotten away and hidden ourselves well. I was wrong. My boat wasn’t hijacked by any pirates, it was taken by a relentless hitman working for the cartel. Now he has obtained what he has been chasing after, Kelly.”

  “Shit. Maybe I should have left you out there. It sounds like getting involved with you is bad luck,” Andy said with skeptical awe.

  “Andy, I won't lie, I need your help. I don’t care if it is just a lift back to civilization. Kelly never wanted to be in that life. If I don’t save her, God only knows what those bastards will do to her. If she’s even still alive…” I trailed off, desperately attempting to block out the possibility that she could, in fact, already be dead.

  Andy looked up, gave me a sly smile, and then snatched his pistol off the table with one hand. With his other hand, he grabbed one of the fully loaded magazines and slammed it home with expert precision before racking the slide. He rose from the dinette table and stuffed the gun in the waistband of his kilt.

  “Well come on! You might be bad luck Chase, but I can’t just turn my back on a woman in need. Let’s go find your boat and see if we can’t get your gal back!”

  Chapter Two

  A few weeks earlier.

  Reflected sunlight from the clear blue tropical waters danced rhythmically on Paramour’s hull as we made our approach to the isolated private mooring just east of Little Pine Key. Attached to that mooring was a floating ball that we hoped would change our lives for the better.

  Kelly slipped some mechanics gloves on her hands and left the cockpit, headed for the bow. Without pausing, she scooped up the boat hook from its resting place on the pilothouse roof as she passed. I throttled the engine back some and turned so that we were headed straight for the mooring ball from dead downwind, sneaking ever closer to it.

  “A little more to port, Chase. Thirty feet to go,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  I turned the boat a few degrees to port and took the engine out of gear, letting our momentum carry us towards the mooring ball.