Blood & Tacos #3 (10 page)

Studs Winslow focused his breathing, eyes open a sliver.

Deep in.

Hold.

Slooooow exhale.

He blocked out the cries of the Caribbean seabirds swirling above his boat,
The Goateed Mollusk IV.
He pushed away the warmth of the blistering equatorial sun. He tasted the salty ocean air on each breath he drew deeply into his belly.

Exhale.

The gentle rise and fall of the boat helped with the breathing meditations he’d been taught by Master Fang Fang in the lost city of Quangtang. Lost, that is, until Studs had found it. (Check out the exciting adventure in
Studs Winslow and the Lost City of Master Fang Fang
.)

After he’d fought off the nine dead soldiers of Emperor Hing and released the city from its thousand-year curse, the grateful Master Fang Fang had rewarded Studs with the secret practices of his temple. One of which was the meditative breathing that allowed him to make the deep dive that he’d soon be undertaking.

He drew his attention to a point of red on the horizon.

Deep in.

Hold.

Slooooow exhale.

The point of red turned a chocolate brown, then the darker hue of untainted coffee. Then that point split into two as Studs realized that he was now staring at the perfect nipples adorning the breasts of Cookie Cutter.

“Damn, Studs, you not done yet with that Chinese hoodee-doo?” Cookie shook her head, playfully expelling the water from her regal afro.

Studs wiped the water from his muscular, sunburned chest. “You’d think that a woman with your education would have a little more respect for the ancient arts,” Studs said as he flipped an unfiltered Lucky between his lips.

“Damn, Winslow. You know me. You can take the girl out of Detroit …”

“Then send that girl to Oxford, then Harvard. Offer her the highest academic honors and dual doctorates in archeology and mystical artifacts …”

“… but you ain’t gonna take the Detroit outta that girl.” Cookie smiled at Studs as she wrapped her arms around his rippling waist, her soft pillowy breasts pressing against his ribs. She reached into the front of his bellbottom jeans, under his swim trunks.

“I hope you’re not starting the fun without me,” said Lily, the Swedish backpacker they’d picked up at Dirty Jack’s Oyster Bar the night before.

Lily hadn’t been Studs’ first choice. Studs had wanted to take the local waitress with them, but Cookie had one sexual rule and one sexual rule only—only one black girl at a time on Studs’ boat. She said that two Nubians at a time brought out “the Africa” in her. Studs had no idea what that meant, but he was curious to find out one day.

As Lily pulled herself out of the water, the sun glistened on her naked white skin. She arched her back, pointing at Studs and Cookie with her Swedish torpedoes.

“We ain’t lighting those kind of fires just yet, baby,” Cookie said, retrieving Studs’ lighter from his trunks.

“Says you,” Studs said.

“You got work to do first.” Cookie flared the lighter, lay the flame against the tip of Studs’ coffin nail. “Speaking of which, I can’t get as deep as you …”

Lily chuckled. She’d learned all too well last night, late last night, and early this morning, that not all of Master Fang Fang’s ancient oriental secrets were necessarily breathing-related.

Cookie rolled her eyes, but a smile curled the corner of her lush lips. “BUT, from what I could see, that didn’t look like no Spanish galleon down there.”

Studs undid his thick skull-and-crossbones belt buckle and dropped his jeans to the deck. “Well, we’ll find out one way or the other, won’t we?”

Studs flipped his cigarette into the ocean, planted a hard kiss onto Cookie’s open mouth, and then dove into the sea.

As she watched Studs’ shadow disappear into the depths, she muttered under her smile, “Crazy-ass cracker.”

Studs pushed deeper and deeper towards the unclear object resting on the ocean
floor. As he got closer with each breaststroke, the outlines of the sunken boat
became clearer.

Cookie was right. That was no Spanish galleon that had been put in a watery grave by the forces of Poseidon. Meter by meter, Studs realized just what was sitting down there.

And he was none too happy about it.

Sweet Eleanor Roosevelt
, thought Studs.
That’s a goddamn Kraut
Schnellboot. Studs had seen plenty of S-Boats during his stint in the Navy during WWII—hell, he’d even jumped aboard one when he and the Screamin’ Seamen took down Hitler’s Mer-Man program—but he’d be a monkey’s uncle before he ever expected to find the wreck of one in the Caribbean. (To find out how Studs defeated the Mer-Men, read
Studs Winslow’s Screamin’ Seamen
.)

Finding a remnant of Uncle Sam’s old adversary had Studs’ full attention. To the point where he didn’t notice the immense shadow bearing down on him.

The rows of teeth opened inches from his face before Studs noticed the ten-foot tiger shark. Studs twisted his body away from the monster as the hellish jaws slammed shut. The leviathan passed by, then turned back to claim the meal that it had oh-so-narrowly missed.

Studs cursed himself for his rookie lapse as the beast charged him a second time. He didn’t want to use the bowie knife strapped to his thigh, but he unsheathed it just in case.

The shark opened its mouth again.

Studs waited.

At the last second, he pistoned his legs and glided above the shark’s snapping maw. With his free hand, Studs grabbed the shark’s dorsal fin and allowed the giant fish to pull him along. The shark bucked and writhed, but to no avail. Studs drew himself down the side of the shark and locked eyes with the beast intent on tearing him to pieces.

Animal to animal, eye to eye, and man to beast, Studs passed along to the shark the predatory message from time immemorial that he was nobody’s lunch.

Studs felt the murderous fish relax underneath him, cowed before the greater warrior. He released the dorsal fin. The beast circled once, laid its coal-black eyes on Studs’ rippling muscular form, then swam into the depths to find a more agreeable meal.

Studs couldn’t be sure, but he thought that if the shark could have reached whatever passed for its forehead, it would have saluted him.

Turning his attention back to the dive, Studs worked his way back through the briny sea towards the S-Boat. When he reached the ship, he swam to the bow and wiped away the algae that had grown over the ship’s name.

Feuchter Traum
.

Damn.

Studs had heard of this boat. And of all of the items that it had carried back to
der Fuehrer
during the war. Rumors whispered in the darkest alleys of Berlin of the curses that the men who piloted the ship endured after each voyage.

From the looks of the long tear along the hull, the boat’s final curse had been its own when it hit the reef that Studs knew had taken many a boat on the south end of the island.

Working his way topside, Studs tried to pry open the ship’s hatch, but years underneath the surface had wedged it shut beyond repair.

For anyone who wasn’t Studs Winslow.

As he put his considerable strength behind the effort, Studs felt the first licks of oxygen deprivation in his lungs. The hatch began to give with a rending screech. Almost, but not wide enough to fit into.

The tussle with the shark had drained too much of his oxygen to continue any more. If not for that damned snaggle-toothed minnow, Studs might have been able to stay under another 20 minutes, maybe even gotten the hatch open on the first try.

He’d have to neuter his curiosity for the moment, return to
The Goateed Mollusk IV
, and work some more of Master Fang Fang’s Oriental mojo before he could make another attempt.

As Studs kicked his legs, propelling himself towards the surface and the oxygen that his chest burned for, he saw the outline of the second boat next to
The Goateed Mollusk IV
.

Guests.

Studs didn’t mind guests at all. He was famous for his parties on eight continents, if you counted Atlantis (which Studs did, after the discovery in
Studs Winslow and the Atlantean Princess of Sea-Love
). Whether the party be on his boats, at his villas, or in one of his compounds, Studs never turned away guests. As long as they were invited. (For a comprehensive list of party dos and don’ts, see
Studs Winslow’s Swinging Party Guide
.)

But Studs didn’t remember inviting anyone that day.

Breaking the surface of the water, Studs sucked in the sweet ocean air. He took a quick look at the new boat and felt a flicker of dread. He reached for his boat’s ladder and looked straight up into the barrel of a Luger pistol.

Above the pistol was a pair of enormous breasts in a black leather bikini. Most men might not have been able to lift their eyes above the death-black chasm of the pistol’s barrel, but Studs Winslow was no ordinary man. Besides, it wasn’t the first pistol he’d faced that week.

After a cursory once-over, Studs tore his eyes off the leather-bound woman flesh and looked into beautiful high cheekbones haloed by golden hair and a pair of the most evil baby-blues he’d ever seen.

Above those eyes perched an SS cap.

Damn.

“Hello, Herr Winslow. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” The smile was genuine. So was the malevolence behind it.

The exhausted Studs was pulled on board by two surprisingly strong (and equally buxom) Aryan princesses in matching black leather bikinis and caps.

The first woman, obviously the leader, kept her gun aimed squarely at Studs’ chiseled midsection.

Cookie was seated on the deck, still naked, arms tied behind her back.

Studs couldn’t help but smirk. “You never let me do that to you.”

Cookie glared at him, but her full red lips fought a smile. “You never pulled a gun on me.”

“Well, not in the sack.” Studs looked at Lily, still in just her stringy bikini bottom … but with an MP40 pointed at Cookie’s back. “What’s the deal, Lily? Why are you working with these Nazi bitches?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed. “Because, Studs Winslow. I am one of them.
Heil Hitler
!” With her free hand, Lily threw a sharp Nazi salute, snapping her heels together. If Studs didn’t know better, he would have sworn that the little bounce made her Teutonic ta-tas pop a little Nazi salute of their own.

“You traitorous Nazi whore,” spat Cookie.

“Quiet!” Lily cracked Cookie across the mouth with the barrel of the submachine gun.

Cookie flicked her tongue to the corner of her mouth, tasted the blood there. Cookie nodded and gave a Lily a deadly look. “I’ma let you have that one, ofay.”

“Enough!” commanded the Nazi bitch apparently in charge. “Do you know who I am, Herr Winslow?”

Studs rolled his neck. “No, but I’ve shot enough of those hats off heads to know
what
you are.”

Tossing her rich blonde hair back, the Aryan bombshell laughed humorlessly. “I wouldn’t expect you to recognize my father’s features in me, but you will know his name. I am Commandant Helga Fuchs!”

Fuchs. Studs knew the name all too well. Many an adventure had pitted him against Hitler’s greatest scientist/warlock/madman, Fritz Fuchs. When Studs and the Screamin’ Seamen had detonated their explosives in the underwater Mer-Man research compound, who do you think had been conducting the experiments? When Studs was thrown naked into that Antarctic ice pit naked to fight an overly libidinous Abominable Snowman (the twisted tale of
Studs Winslow versus the Abominable Sex Snowman
), who would you guess had let the beast off its leash? When Jack the Ripper had been transported through time to 1968 London, who was at the controls of the Chrononaut’s time machine? (Dig the slaughtered beatniks in
Studs Winslow Swings through Time
.)

So when Fritz Fuchs’ hyper-intelligent Croco-Gorillas turned on their creator and ripped him to shreds, Studs finally thought the man and his madness had been laid to rest. Or at least been digested by Croco-Gorillas.

Studs snarled. “Yeah, I recognize the name of that lunatic.”

Helga backhanded Studs across the chops. “My father was a genius!”

“Your father was a madman.” Helga swung again, but Studs caught her by the wrist. “And it looks like his daughter inherited his madness.”

The two silent women who had pulled Studs aboard whipped out submachine guns and aimed them at Studs’ head. With her free hand, Helga pressed her Luger to Studs’ temple. She slid her hand up his chiseled thigh and removed his bowie knife from the sheath. She tossed it to the deck. Lily picked up the blade and stuck it into the thin fabric of her bikini bottom.

“And you, Herr Studs, you have a remarkable physique for a man who fought in World War Two.” Helga didn’t sound surprised. She traced the barrel of the gun down Studs’ neck, through his thick mat of chest hair, and over his flat stomach. She pressed herself against him, smelling his musk, lips brushing against his shoulder. Catching herself, Helga snapped back to attention, the business end of the Luger pointed back under Studs’ chin.

Studs smirked at Helga Fuchs. He assumed that somehow she’d found out about the Fountain of Youth that Studs had stumbled upon all those years ago in Bolivia (in
Studs Winslow and Muhammad Ali in Bolivia
).