Excerpt of Murder On The Whiskey George by J J Brinks

PROLOGUE

The airboat skimmed the calm black surface of the winding creek, running deep into the recesses of the North Florida night, its propeller droning like the beating wings of some titanic prehistoric insect long since entombed beneath the muck and decay of the vast swampland. Nocturnal creatures scurried from the boat's path, or died trying.

The pilot swung the craft into a left turn, slowed to an idle then maneuvered forty yards along a narrow tributary where he cut the engine and let the boat's momentum carry it through a stand of tall grass, the sound like sandpaper being drawn in a single long stroke against the underside of the aluminum hull.

The bow came to rest against the edge of a small hummock. From a distance the boat and the land form would appear as one—a dark construct cut from opaque material, pasted in silhouette against a backdrop of pine, oak, and cypress.

The pilot climbed down from his seat, crouched for a moment on the flat deck listening to the night-sounds, then positioned himself behind his passenger who sat as motionless in the bow chair as a man anticipating the first snip of the barber's scissors.

Moonlight played off the shaggy blond flop of the seated man's hair and painted the ragged sweatshirt he'd had since college in a soft glow. His face was masked by a slick of sweat although the air was cool.

Several hours had passed since he'd been drugged—sufficient time to sober his brain so that he was aware first of the cessation of motion, then to a change in the stillness as the narcotic fog continued to dissipate.

He marveled at his predicament with a weird detachment, as if he were a spectator, not a participant, pondering a question that came to him like a recorded voice not fully his. Why hadn't he just walked away and taken his chances?

In answer, an image of Samantha formed of fog and light appeared in the blackness before his eyes.

For me, Billy. You did it for me.

Then as quickly as it had appeared, her face swirled and vanished into the pitch of a black vortex; he was overcome by a frantic need to survive—to be with her, to protect her.

He strained at first with rag doll-force against the cord that bound him to the chair, then began to buck and gyrate as a surge of adrenaline coursed through his blood. The veins in his neck bulged with the effort as his eyes filled with rage.

The pilot moved in quickly, certain that the muscular man was about to break free. He shoved the muzzle of the big Ruger against the back of the man's head and jerked the trigger.

The round entered low behind the right ear, ripping away in a bloody spray of teeth, bone, and tissue the Duct Tape that had covered his victim's mouth.

The shooter stumbled backward as a mushy cry escaped the gaping hole where his target's jaw had been only an instant before. Near panic, he took aim and fired again, then dropped to the deck, kneeling in his own vomit, sucking in brief gasps of air as he waited for the nausea to pass, wishing the asshole had simply stopped breathing hours before. But he hadn't. And that had left no option. He had his orders. Dead meant dead.

In time he forced himself into action, cutting the body loose from the chair, dragging its weight over the bow and onto the small patch of ground.

He stepped back onto the deck, gathered up lengths of cord and moved aft where he opened a locker, tossed in the gun and the pieces of rope, then grabbed a bucket and washed down the deck and chair, flushing away the gore and his own spew.

That done, he jumped into the water and pulled the boat free of the hummock, swung it around and hopped aboard where he climbed to the pilot's seat and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life, the propeller wash throwing the rudder from side to side until it steadied under his grip.

He worked his way slowly through the tangled overhang of moss-hung limbs and snake-like vines to the main creek, then made his course back along the familiar stretch of swampy waterway, the wind in his face seeming to blow away any fear he'd had about being caught. Everything had turned out okay, even with the change in plans.

As the boat gathered speed he reached beneath his seat for the flask filled with Jack, his thoughts turning to the money he'd earned for a day's work—more than he'd made in the past six months. With any luck—and he was due some—he'd triple it in no time at the Greyhound track.

He took a long pull of the smooth, sweet bourbon, throttled back and made a few lazy turns, reliving the moment, feeling his finger on the trigger, a proud sneer tugging at his mouth.

Maybe he deserved more money, what with the unexpected problems and all. Sort of a bonus.

The more he thought on the idea, the surer he was.

A big one at that.