Rising Charity Read online

  Copyright © 2019

  Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2019

  Beaufort, SC

  Copyright © 2019 by Wayne Stinnett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data

  Stinnett, Wayne

  Rising Charity/Wayne Stinnett

  p. cm. – (A Jesse McDermitt novel)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7322360-3-5 (Down Island Press)

  ISBN-10: 1-7322360-3-8

  Cover photograph by Goran Jakus Photography

  Graphics by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by The Write Touch

  Final Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Interior Design by Ampersand Book Designs

  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 of the locations herein are also fictional or are used fictitiously. However, I take great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean, to the best of my ability.

  I had a whole lot of fun writing this book. Parts of it were co-written with Kimberli Bindschatel, and her characters appear here and as do mine in her new book, Operation: Dolphin Spirit. The fun part was that we both write in first person. That choice of narrative technique illustrates how two people can see, hear, or feel the same thing, yet have two completely distinct interpretations. We kept the action and dialogue exactly the same in both versions, but Jesse and Kimberli’s character, Poppy McVie, don’t always see things the same way.

  Great appreciation goes to my pre-editing team for helping to hammer out the logistics and details to get everything just right. Thank you to Dan Horn, Dana Vilhen, Tom Crisp, Ron Ramey, Katy McKnight, Charles Hofbauer, Drew Mutch, Mike Ramsey, Debbie Kocol, Marc Lowe, Glenn Hibbert, Torrey Neill, and my special gratitude to Gary Cox, who gets a big nod of thanks for the basic plot of this and many stories to come. You’ve given Jesse direction again, cobber.

  As always, I must thank my wife, Greta, for all her help and support. The weekends and evenings during which I’d been lost in Jesse’s story, or off to writer’s conferences and book signings have been many. The two of us wouldn’t be where we are today if we weren’t, we. They say two halves make a whole, but in our case, Greta and I become more than a whole.

  A man without a family to work and strive for has nothing. Our kids, Nikki, Laura, Richard, and Jordan have been very supportive in my new writing career. Going into 2019, my sixth year as an author, I can honestly say that none of what I’ve accomplished so far would have come to pass if not for them. There wouldn’t have been any reason for it all.

  I hope you enjoy this story. It’s been a while, I know. The last one was published nearly six months ago. I promise the next one will come sooner. If you read Nick Sullivan’s novel, Deep Shadow, you may recall a familiar and salty character who plucked the hero and heroine from the sea at the end. He called himself Stretch Buchanan, and he was aboard an old steel-hulled Seaton trawler called Floridablanca. Stretch is the name Jesse has used a few times, to keep his identity secret. Well, that was a future Jesse in Nick’s book. And in Rising Charity, you’ll see the building of the framework needed to put Stretch off the coast of Saba in time to pull Boone and Emily from the water.

  If you’d like to receive my monthly newsletter for specials, book recommendations, and updates on coming books, please sign up on my website:

  www.waynestinnett.com

  Charity Styles Series

  Merciless Charity

  Ruthless Charity

  Reckless Charity

  Enduring Charity

  Jesse McDermitt Series

  Fallen Out

  Fallen Palm

  Fallen Hunter

  Fallen Pride

  Fallen Mangrove

  Fallen King

  Fallen Honor

  Fallen Tide

  Fallen Angel

  Fallen Hero

  Rising Storm

  Rising Fury

  Rising Force

  Don’t forget to visit the Gaspar’s Revenge ship’s store.

  There you can purchase all kinds of swag related to my books.

  WWW.GASPARS-REVENGE.COM

  This story is dedicated to the folks at Lady’s Island Marina, where I have my office, my boat, and many friends. Remember, whenever I’m around, anything you say or do is fodder for fiction.

  “You know, as a writer—I’m more of a listener than a writer, cuz if I hear something, I will write it down.”

  – Jimmy Buffett

  On a nearly barren promontory jutting out into Monterey Bay stands the oldest continuously active lighthouse on the west coast. Point Pinos Lighthouse rises above the rocky shoreline at the southern end of the bay and has been guiding mariners to safe harbor for more than 150 years.

  Unlike many lighthouses, the Point Pinos light rises only slightly above the roof of the tender’s home, which was built around it. The high headland itself lifts the house well above the Pacific Ocean and Monterey Bay. Its piercing light can be seen for fifteen nautical miles out at sea, conditions permitting.

  But on that early spring morning on the coast of California, conditions weren’t so permitting. The sky was gray with broken clouds scudding in off the ocean from a storm building to the north. The air was a brisk 60 degrees and seemed to be charged by the approaching gale. Though the wind blew steady at fifteen knots, an occasional gust would rattle the windows of the old lighthouse. To the west, out over the Pacific, the horizon was shrouded in mist.

  Inland, just a couple hundred yards from the lighthouse, were the unnaturally green fields of Pacific Grove Golf Links and El Carmelo Cemetery. The color of the verdant sloping hills was a sharp contrast to the muted browns, grays, and greens of the uneven natural landscape.

  Two men were watching through binoculars from the observation deck of the lighthouse. They’d arrived before dawn. And they weren’t looking out to sea.

  One of the men was tall and ruggedly built, his tanned features and graying hair a match to the natural terrain he was observing. The other man, slight and balding, appeared as if he’d be more at home on the golf course.

  The two men were gazing in the direction of the links and graves. The early morning players were strolling the greens in groups, breaking up in search of their balls and the opportunity to take another swing.

  Occasionally a car pulled off or on to the road near the gate to the cemetery.

  “How sure are you that she’ll be here?”

  “I’m not,” the taller man replied in a gravelly voice. “You asked where I thought she might be, and this is my best guess.”

  “And you haven’t had contact with her in over a year?”

  The tall man shifted his weight as he continued to stare through powerful binoculars. “Correct.”

  “So, how do you know she’ll be here?”

  Lowering the binos, the rugged-looking man looked down at his companion. “Like I said, I don’t know. What I do know, Bremmer, is human nature. She was an only child, abandoned by her mother when she was very young and orphaned before reaching adulth
ood. I know she sailed into the Pacific a year ago last January. She has no family and few friends to speak of, and today marks ten years since she lost her father.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “She could be in Hong Kong for all I know. Or she might be standing right behind me. Do not take this woman’s abilities lightly.”

  “I’ve read her jacket.”

  Travis Stockwell raised his binos again, peering toward the cemetery. “Not all her training and exploits were written in her record book. I know, I sent her.”

  Charlie Bremmer dressed in a gray business suit, sans the tie, looked out toward the links. “You keep alluding to that but never mention specifics. Our agency wants to know more.”

  “Not from me, you don’t. I doubt she’ll even want to be a part of your organization.” Stockwell lowered his glasses and looked at the balding man. “By the way, your organization could use a better name.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not for me to decide,” Bremmer replied, looking up at the former Airborne officer. “We’re counting on you to persuade her, Colonel. You, as well as a few other people, have said she’s the only person who can find McDermitt.”

  “What others?”

  “I’ve spoken with two of the men in your old team,” Bremmer said.

  Stockwell already knew that. “Yeah, Deuce called me right after you met with him. Without McDermitt, you won’t get him, and without him, his team’s out of reach. McDermitt’s another one who won’t want to be found. What do you want with him, anyway?”

  “It’s not just you and Livingston who are of the opinion that he’s the absolute best at infiltration.”

  “Yeah,” Stockwell said. “There’s that. He could be standing behind her, standing behind me, and neither of us would know it. But last I heard, he slipped off the deep end.”

  “And nobody’s heard from him in over a year?”

  “Have you ever been to old South Florida, Bremmer?”

  “I am the AIC in our Miami office.”

  “Fishermen settled the Keys more than a century before anyone even thought about draining the swamps to build a trading post and call it Miami. The people of the Keys are tough and resilient; that’s why they’re called Conchs. And they look after one another. He’s been back there now and again, I’m sure. But nobody on those bony rocks will say anything about it to an outsider. He’s one of them.”

  “That was the gist of what Livingston said,” Bremmer replied, looking through the binos once more. “We want him to be one of us.”

  “Deuce and I have talked,” Stockwell said, lowering his binoculars, and turning toward the man. “None of us have agreed to anything yet. And those two? Her and McDermitt? It’ll take a helluva lot more than money to win them over.”

  “We’re counting on that,” Bremmer said. He paused, leaning forward until his binoculars almost touched the glass surrounding the lighthouse’s observation deck. “Is that her?”

  “Yeah,” Stockwell said. He’d already seen her.

  The woman arrived on a small scooter, wearing jeans, a blue flannel shirt, and boots. She had a small pack on her back and parked 100 feet from where Stockwell knew her father was buried.

  She climbed off her scooter and stood, looking all around. She was tall and lean, with her hair piled beneath a faded blue cap, but a few blond locks fell on either side of her face.

  “She’s beautiful,” Bremmer said.

  “She’s also a cold-blooded killer, Bremmer. If you screw this up, neither of us might ever leave here. Shut up and let me do the talking.”

  “This is—”

  “It’s my meet,” Stockwell said, putting away his field glasses, and glaring at the man. “She was my asset. And I think a part of her saw me as a friend. Now, let’s go.”

  Exiting the front of the lightkeeper’s house, the two men got into a white Suburban with dark-tinted glass. Though the cemetery was only 200 yards from the lighthouse, the rugged landscape made it faster and easier to take the road around the point. Fast and easy didn’t relieve the anxiety Stockwell felt. But he knew he’d feel even more anxious out in the open.

  Bremmer pulled into a parking spot just past the cemetery entrance and shut off the engine. “I hate cemeteries. Depressing use of land.”

  As he reached for the door handle, Stockwell stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Sit tight, Bremmer.”

  A narrow lane turned off the entrance road and ran parallel to the main road. Stockwell could see the scooter, leaning on its stand, but the woman was nowhere in sight.

  Stockwell put both hands on his knees. “Roll down the windows and keep your hands on the wheel.”

  “What—”

  “Just do it, Bremmer. She was expecting us.”

  “I don’t see her.”

  “Me neither,” Stockwell said, his eyes searching among all the headstones. “And with this lady, that’s damned unnerving.”

  “You said she was your asset.”

  “I told you I haven’t had any contact with her in a year,” Stockwell replied. “And at that time, she suspected I might be trying to kill her. So not seeing her has me a little on edge. Best thing to do is sit tight and let her make the next move.”

  “You need to be a bit more forthcoming, Colonel.”

  Stockwell’s eyes saw movement far to the left. But it was just a crow on a low tree branch, flapping its wings. “Yeah, well, in my business that shit’ll get you killed.”

  For ten minutes, the two men sat silently in the car, looking beyond the weathered picket fence in the direction of the scooter. The only movement either man saw were occasional crows flying from tree to tree. The engine ticked as the metal cooled. An old man walked by on the road, carrying a bag.

  There was the slightest sound of crunching stone outside his window, and Stockwell froze. Before he could even turn his head toward the passenger-side mirror, the long barrel of a suppressed pistol was placed against the side of his head.

  “What do you want?” Charity Styles asked, her voice calm and deadly serious.

  Stockwell didn’t flinch. He kept both hands on his knees, and prayed Bremmer kept his on the wheel.

  “Jesse’s missing.”

  “No, the man knows exactly where he is. But you don’t.”

  “We’re just here to talk,” Bremmer said. Stockwell winced slightly.

  “Shut up, whoever you are,” Charity hissed. “Or the next thing you won’t feel is a nine-millimeter jacketed round exiting Stockwell’s skull and entering yours.”

  Neither man said anything.

  Charity pressed the muzzle of the suppressed handgun harder against the side of Stockwell’s head. “With all due respect, Colonel, I asked you what you wanted.”

  Though he’d spent 30 years in service to his country in some of the most dangerous places in the world, Stockwell had only felt fear a handful of times in his career. This was one of them. In every dangerous encounter he’d had, he knew he had his soldiers around him. Now he had only Bremmer, and the woman with the gun was one of the most dangerous people he’d ever worked with. What made her truly frightening were the violent demons locked in her mind.

  “We want you to find Jesse.”

  “Why?”

  “So the man beside me can ask you and him for help.”

  “Unlock the back door.”

  Bremmer moved his left hand very slowly and pushed the button. The doors unlocked.

  “Both of you,” Charity ordered. “Left hand only—disarm and toss them in the back.”

  “I’m unarmed,” Bremmer said.

  “That makes you a dumbass, mister.”

  Slowly, Stockwell pulled his jacket open with his left hand. Even more slowly, he lifted his Colt with two fingers and moved it over his head, so Charity could see it the whole way. Releasing it, the Colt fell to the floor behind him.

 
“And the backup on your ankle, if you don’t mind, Colonel.”

  Stockwell complied, and in an instant, Charity opened the back door and slid in. Stockwell didn’t have to see that she’d picked up his Colt; he heard the cock of the hammer.

  “You won’t be offended if I don’t take you at your word,” she said, reaching over Bremmer’s left shoulder, and holding Stockwell’s pistol against the man’s chest with her left hand. “Hope you’re not ticklish. If you move even the slightest, you will die.”

  Stockwell noticed that his Colt needed only change a few degrees of angle to be pointing at him. Charity used her right hand to search under Bremmer’s jacket and all around his waistband. Stockwell knew full well that she was equally adept at offhand shooting and was more than familiar with a Colt 1911. He also knew that there was a round in the chamber. As did she.

  Satisfied, Charity sat back in the middle of the backseat. “How did you know where I was?”

  “Your father died ten years ago,” Stockwell said, quietly. “He was all you had. I took a guess. I apologize for intruding.”

  “You got a lot of balls interrupting me. I saw you in the lighthouse.”

  “We were going to wait here until you were through,” Stockwell said. “We really do need your help. You know the man’s true worth better than anyone. Even Deuce.”

  “Who’s this guy?”

  “Charlie Bremmer,” Stockwell replied. “He can tell you who he works for.”

  “Well?” Charity asked, bumping the back of the other man’s seat.

  “I’m the associate-in-charge in the Miami recruiting office for Armstrong Research. I oversee the Mobile Operational Readiness Division of the company, working together with the expeditionary division.”

  “Say what?” Charity asked.

  Travis grinned slightly.

  “Armstrong Research—”

  “I heard you the first time. Quite a mouthful.”

  “I get that a lot,” Bremmer said. “We’re working on it.”

  “And just what does this word-vomit organization want with me and Jesse?”

  “I can only talk to him about that,” Bremmer said, with a gulp.