HardWind (5 page)

wash over the shore. Turning the water on full blast, as cold as he could get it, he

shrugged slowly out of his soiled pants, opened the shower door and forced himself

inside. The explosion of the chilled water on his body sent tremors rippling down his

spine.

“Doorbell’s ringing,” Jackson said.

“Who the hell…?” Daire asked, but figured he knew. He smiled grimly as he took

up the soap and began lathering.

Jackson opened the door and was rewarded with an insulated pot of coffee. The

smell was fantastic. “Bless you, my child,” he told Star, making the sign of the Cross

over her.

“I figured you had your hands full trying to sober him up and wouldn’t have time

to brew a decent pot of coffee,” she said.

“He was going to get three heaping teaspoons of instant,” Jackson responded.

“Which he would have promptly thrown up,” Star said with a laugh. She turned to

go.

“Thanks, sweet lady,” Jackson said.

“
De nada
,” she acknowledged over her shoulder.

Jackson took the pot of coffee to the kitchen, grabbed two mugs out of the cabinet

and headed back to the bathroom. He poured himself a cup, sat down on the rim of the

garden tub and took a sip. “Woman brews a hell of a cup of java,” he called out over the

rush of the shower.

Dáire turned the water off and stood there for a moment as the water dripped from

his shivering body. He hadn’t had either the courage or the strength to shave and he

knew he would catch hell about it. Not that he cared at that moment. He could smell the

coffee, and though his gut roiled at the aroma, he desperately needed the hot brew.

Flinging open the shower door, he held out his hand and a mug magically appeared in

his blurred line of vision.

23

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Could have used a croissant or a bagel with honeyed cream cheese,” Jackson

complained as he returned to the edge of the tub. “Would have gotten it too if you

hadn’t fucked up with our lady.”

“Why don’t you court her yourself, Jack Off,” Dáire grumbled as he walked

gingerly over to the sink, leaned over the vanity and stared at his reflection in the

mirror. “God, I look like death warmed over.”

“Not your usual pretty-boy self, no,” Jackson agreed. “A life of debauchery is not

conducive to maintaining one’s superior looks.” He chuckled. “I should know.”

“Think Gentry will believe I’ve decided to grow a beard?” Dáire asked, turning

away from the mirror.

“The boss had a man on you last night,” Jackson told him. “He’ll have reported

every juicy detail about your fall from grace.” He got up and followed Dáire out of the

bathroom.

Dáire shrugged. “Oh well.” He winced as he turned the light on in the walk-in

closet and grabbed the first pair of pants he saw. He leaned against the closet wall and

tugged the pants up his long legs.

“How do you keep from getting skidmarks in your trousers, Dairy Crow?” Jackson

wanted to know. “Don’t you even own a pair of underwear?”

“I know how to wipe myself. Do you?” Dáire asked between clenched teeth. His

head was pounding so brutally, it was all he could do to straighten up from pulling on

the khaki pants. For the first time he got a good look at Jackson. “Jesus, Jackson. You

look like the Michelin tire man.”

Dressed in a white long-sleeve cotton shirt, white trousers and white loafers,

Jackson glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. “I’m dressed for this balmy clime,

you arrogant prick.”

“The Michelin tire man whose face ran over a can of red paint,” Dáire muttered. He

took a long drink of the scalding-hot coffee, barely flinching as the liquid spread over

his tongue.

Jackson was hovering close by should his help be needed. He took a seat on the

bench in the middle of the closet floor and watched as Dáire tried to button a shirt over

his broad chest. “It’s lopsided, dude.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Dáire inquired in a pleasant voice.

“Gentry will,” Jackson said. He put his mug on the bench, stood up and came over

to rework the buttons on his friend’s navy blue shirt.

Feeling like a toddler, Dáire remained still until Jackson had the shirt buttoned up

correctly. “I feel like shit,” he complained.

“Dago Red will do that to ya,” Jackson declared. “Don’t forget your socks.”

“Screw the socks,” Daire said.

“I used to do that in my youth, but I’ve since learned mayonnaise jars are much

more entertaining,” Jackson revealed.

24

HardWind

Dáire refrained from making a comment. He thrust his feet into his loafers,

grimacing as he did. He hated the feel of the insole against his bare feet but he didn’t

have the heart to go rummaging for socks. Leaving his shirt outside his pants, he

walked out of the closet and headed for the front door.

“Don’t you need your wallet?” Jackson asked.

Either Dáire didn’t hear or was ignoring Jackson. He continued on to the door,

opened it and then held up a hand to block the bright sunlight falling through the

domed skylight. “Sunglasses,” he pleaded.

“Already on it,” Jackson said, swiping the dark Ray-Bans from the console table

beside the front door. He held them out to Dáire.

“You are a fucking hell of a gentleman, Jack Off.”

“I live to serve, pretty boy.”

From the closed-circuit camera over Star’s door, she was watching the men as they

waited for the elevator. Dáire was weaving as he stood there, but at least he was erect.

She watched them until the elevator doors closed then went in to get dressed for the

day.

The ride down in the elevator’s overly bright light had Dáire leaning against the

wall, his eyes behind the dark glasses squeezed shut. Pain was beating through his head

and his stomach was still threatening to revolt.

“I left a note for Consuelo to throw out your sheets,” Jackson said as the cage

settled. “No way was I going to wash those things.”

“That’s fine,” Dáire agreed.

Thankfully no one was about in the lobby other than the morning concierge to

waylay the two men as they walked outside. As soon as the humid heat struck Dáire he

gagged, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up.

“You might want to sit up front with me, Mr. Jackson,” the driver said, sweeping

his sunglass-covered gaze over Dáire. He was holding the rear door open. “I put a basin

in the back for him.”

“Does the whole world know I’m hungover?” Dáire complained.

“Just get the hell in and lay down,” Jackson advised. “I’ll sit up front with Allen.”

Daire climbed inside and promptly stretched out as best he could fold his six-feettwo frame into the confines of the sedan. He was grateful Allen, the driver, had not only

provided a basin but a thick pillow.

“Better than he deserves,” Jackson said as Allen gently shut the door.

“I have some Steppenwolf tapes in the glove box if you feel up to listening to them

this early in the a.m.,” Allen joked.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ve no desire to smell him puking all the way to the

airfield.” He got in and slammed his door as hard as he could.

“Jackson, please!” came a faint beseeching from the backseat.

25

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Go back to sleep,” Jackson ordered. “And try not to puke down your shirt.”

Allen was a bit less enthusiastic about shutting the driver-side door but he too was

rewarded with a complaint from the backseat.

The ride to the airfield where the chopper was berthed took roughly thirty minutes.

By the time Allen had driven the twenty miles from the Farraige to the Bay County

International Airport, Dáire was sound asleep, snoring softly.

“Don’t he look cute?” Jackson asked, twisting around to look at the sleeping man.

“Makes me feel inadequate and all,” Allen said dryly.

“Yeah, me too,” Jackson said.

“I don’t feel cute,” Dáire said. He’d awakened as soon as the car stopped. “I feel like

shit.”

“So you’ve said,” Jackson commented. “Stop belaboring the point. Don’t nobody

feel sorry for your ass.”

Struggling to push himself up, Dáire groaned. The vicious agony in his head was

still there but at least his nausea had subsided. He ran a hand over his forehead, wiping

away the sweat that had formed there.

“Try not to get slapped in the head with the blades, okay, Dairy Crow?” Jackson

warned as he opened the back door and held out a hand to help Dáire from the car.

“Although I think a buzz cut would look adorable on you, I doubt Gentry would.”

“I’ll try to remember to stoop to your height,” Dáire returned.

Beneath the rotating blades of the Agusta 109C, the air was a bit cooler, but the

wash of the wind did nothing to make Dáire feel any better. He climbed into the twin

engine, multi-blade helicopter and buckled in. He began to feel even worse as the

chopper took to the skies and arced out of the Gulf.

“Hang in there, dude,” Jackson told him.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dáire whispered.

His discomfort had gotten no better by the time the Agusta landed on the helipad of

the
HardWind
. Even though the pilot finessed the six-thousand-pound helicopter to the

pad, there was enough of a jolt to send savage pain through Dáire’s throbbing head. He

put his palms to his temples and bent forward beneath the agony.

“I want you to drink another case of Dago Red,” Jackson said sweetly as he

unbuckled his seatbelt.

“I want to die,” Dáire complained.

“Gentry just might oblige you,” Jackson warned.

Forcing one foot ahead of the other, Daire walked away from the helicopter,

following Jackson into the ship. He mumbled acknowledgements to those members of

the crew who greeted him, but didn’t lift his head any higher than it was necessary for

him to navigate the interior of the plush motor yacht.

“The boss is in the office,” Dáire heard someone say.

26

HardWind

Two hundred and thirty feet of luxury motor boat, the
HardWind
had a twenty-foot

draught and was built for extended ocean voyages. It was registered to a Dutch

company with a homeport in Jamaica. Onboard the boat, a garage held the owner’s

custom-equipped sports utility vehicle and a helipad graced the top deck. Two fortyfoot sport-fishing boats were strapped snugly to the side decks. Manned by a twentymember crew, the
HardWind
had eight double-suite cabins with queen-sized berths, two

twin suites with full-sized berths, and dining and entertainment facilities large enough

to accommodate twenty-four people in luxurious comfort. The owner’s private deck

bore a suite with a retractable moon roof and was decked out with a sitting area

complete with a sixty-inch plasma television, a concave ten-feet-wide acrylic twohundred-and-sixty-five-gallon aquarium, a fireplace, high-tech office, well-stocked bar,

his and hers walk-in showers, a sunken whirlpool tub and a Hollywood king-sized bed.

The
HardWind
was the company ship and a little piece of floating heaven for those

granted access to her. At any given time, three operatives of The Cumberland Group

were onboard along with their boss Tyndall Gentry, the boss’ private bodyguard and

the crew.

Flanking the doorway into the luxuriously appointed office were two of the three

operatives and they neither smiled nor replied when Jackson wished them a good

morning.

Whistling beneath his breath, Jackson leaned over to Dáire. “Methinks you are in

deep doo-doo this time, old chap.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dáire acknowledged.

One of the gatekeepers reached behind him to open the office door then stepped

back for Dáire and Jackson to enter. He quietly closed the door behind them once they

were inside.

A rock-solid man with wide shoulders, a bull-like neck, arms the size of pine tree

trunks, cold black eyes set in a face only a mother could love, with a bald head that

glistened as though it had been polished with oil, stood off to one side of the room,

thick arms crossed over a powerful chest. Like the operatives outside, he did not smile

or greet the men in any way. His gaze was locked on Dáire with obvious dislike.

Tyndall Gentry was sitting behind an elegant mahogany desk in a chair Dáire knew

held an eight-motor massage unit. The ergonomic chair had been crafted especially for

Gentry in soft Corinthian leather that matched the exact same shade as the desk’s

uncluttered top. Only a telephone, pad, pen and a cup of tea rested on the pristine top

of the huge desk.

Without being told, the men took the two uncomfortable leather chairs that sat

before the desk. Neither spoke for it was against Gentry’s rules that anyone speak until

spoken to. For a long time, the boss did not speak, just stared angrily at Dáire until the

young man began fidgeting in the chair.

“Sit still!”

27

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The order was a hiss of sound that brooked no disobeying. Though not spoken

loudly, the two words nevertheless carried with them a harsh reprimand.

Dáire stopped moving. His hands were curled around the padded arms of the chair,

his eyes leveled on Gentry.

“Have you any notion how angry I am with you, Cronin?” Gentry asked, eyes

narrowed, lips tight.

“I have some idea,” he answered.