Page 47 of Scammed

“Nothing,” said Whiskey, “but we’ve been wet before, and we’ll be wet again. It’s only a tropical storm, not a hurricane. Even if he gets off the island, it’s unlikely he’ll survive sailing in the storm.”

“Let’s hope we’re right.” Bull came back up top and smiled at the others.

“What did you do?” asked Ian.

“Bought an insurance plan,” he smiled.

The others just chuckled, knowing that their friend had done something that might save them all. With the sun beginning to hide behind clouds, they realized that the weather might not cooperate in Louisiana, let alone in Caicos.

“Up ahead,” said Whiskey. “There’s a boat coming right for us. He’s damn sure not trying to hide.”

The candy apple red cigarette boat was woefully out of place in the bayou. Legally, she shouldn’t have been allowed on the waters. Her engines were far too big and could scrape bottom at some point. Obviously, Couvillion didn’t give a damn and was all about showmanship.

“I hear you have my painting,” he smiled, yelling to the other boat.

“I may,” said Trak, stepping out on the deck. Ian and Ghost followed. Couvillion immediately frowned at him.

“You brought back-up,” he growled. “I’m an honest man. I just want my painting.”

“Then pay me the money, and you can have it,” said Trak. Couvillion raised the envelope, opening it slightly for him to see the cash.

“Come and get it. Bring the painting.”

Whiskey maneuvered their boat alongside the red speedboat. Trak carefully grabbed the frame of the painting, then stepped over and down into the other vessel. He carefully removed the wrapping, and Couvillion looked giddy with excitement.

“Turn it around,” he demanded. Trak wanted to put it over his head but instead turned the painting. “Wonderful. It’s in original condition. Leave it.”

Trak took the envelope of money, stepping back into the boat. As he did, Couvillion pulled out a weapon, aiming it at the men. That’s when Bull stepped forward, his hand raised with something on it.

“What is that?” yelled Couvillion. “What did you do?”

“This is called insurance,” smiled Bull. “See, this fishing line is connected to a wonderful explosive device on the back of the painting. If anything happens to me, I tug, and the whole thing goes poof!”

The anger and hatred on the other man’s face were evident. He’d been bested, and he didn’t even know who these men were. He lowered his weapon and nodded.

“Fine. But I will kill you in the end.”

“Not if I kill you first,” said Trak. Slowly, Couvillion backed the boat up and began to head toward the Intercoastal Highway. Bull cut the string when he believed that he was far enough away to miss them with gunfire.

“You could have lost a finger doing that,” smirked Whiskey.

“It was my middle finger,” shrugged Bull. “I only use it for special occasions.”

“The tracker on the painting is working,” said Ian, staring at his phone. “He’s headed toward the city. I’m going to guess once he gets the letter, he’ll dispose of the painting. Feeling his hatred, I’m going to guess he’ll burn it.”

“Let him,” said Trak.

“That seems cruel,” frowned Bull.

“It’s a fake,” he smirked. “Ela was able to quickly create a replica of the oil painting with the help of Ellie and Ro. They’re all quite good at what they do. We need to remember to involve the women more. Except Lauren. Let’s not involve Lauren.”

“I’m going to tell your wife you said that,” laughed Ghost.

“Then you should sleep with one eye open, my friend.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Any luck on Couvillion’s history?” asked Marcel, kissing his wife.

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