White Gold
A Zach Taylor Adventure
by Spencer Dane

Chapter 1

One year after the case of the Blue Diamonds

Along a secluded waterway about 125 miles northeast of Caracas, Venezuela, in the calm but forbidden waters surrounding Isla la Orchila, a moonless April night provided cover of darkness for a young man bent on catching fish. Seventeen year-old Fernando Martine enjoyed fishing after midnight on moonless nights. He didn’t know why, but the fish just seemed to bite better late at night when the moon wasn’t out and they always tasted better when he caught them in some forbidden place, like the waters surrounding Isla la Orchila.

Under the protection of the Venezuelan government and off limits to all but high-ranking military officers and the Venezuelan president, Isla la Orchila is the least known island of the southern Caribbean. This anonymity makes it ideal as a refuge for special guests who don’t want to be found as well as those who are willing and able to pay significant compensation for the use of the presidential mansion. In return, they receive privacy the island’s remote location provides as well as security, courtesy of the Government troops garrisoned there and the Armada patrol ships that keep tourists, curiosity seekers, and all but the most daring young fishermen away.

On this particular moonless night, the Armada patrol ship assigned to ensure security and privacy to the only special guests residing on Isla la Orchila—a newlywed couple from the United States on their honeymoon—mysteriously developed engine trouble and never left port.

Nevertheless, after a few hours of tossing his line in and slowly pulling it out, Fernando Martine heard the low rumble of what sounded like an Armada patrol ship in the distance.

Better to go home hungry than to stay here and end up in prison, he thought. He yanked his line out of the water one last time, grabbed the oars, turned his old wooden fishing boat around 180 degrees, and began rowing.

The sound grew closer.

He rowed faster.

The sound of the ship changed pitch. It grew louder and louder, as if it was searching for him.

Suddenly, there was dead silence, followed by a loud, horrifying, grinding roar as the ship’s steel hull knifed through Fernando’s boat, crushing it to bits.

Rico Slavik, forty, a tall, dark, lean and wiry Slovenian mercenary and known terrorist, stood on the deck of that ship, which was not an Armada patrol ship but a Cyclone-class vessel decommissioned by the US Navy in 1999, given to Argentina, and then sold four years later to Pennington Imports, the legitimate front for the illegitimate operations of the New York City-based Baldacci crime family. Re-christened Ignacio, after Don Ignacio Baldacci, head of the family, the ship had been refitted with the latest high-tech surveillance gear, weaponry, and countermeasures.

Removing the leather cap he wore more for style than out of necessity, Slavik ran his fingers through his thick black hair, which seemed even thicker due to the southern Caribbean’s nighttime humidity. He placed the cap snugly back on his head, turning to Paul Petroni, thirty, who stood beside him.

“No witnesses,” he said, spitting tobacco over the railing. His Slovenian accent was as thick as his biceps.

Petroni, a well-fed, stocky American from Jersey City, New Jersey, scanned the waters back and forth with the night vision scope of his silencer-equipped assault rifle. “I don’t see anybody,” he said. “And I don’t think I’m going to.” Although Slavik had been hired to run the mission, Petroni was a lieutenant in the Baldacci family organization and didn’t like taking orders from a mercenary.

Pertroni took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I’m wasting my time out here and the humidity is killing my sinuses.”

Slavik stepped away from the railing, turning to open a watertight door leading to the crew’s quarters. Petroni’s sinuses were none of his concern. “I said no witnesses,” he repeated. “Keep looking among the pieces of boat.” He ducked inside the ship, closing the door behind him.

Petroni shook his head in disgust, muttering to himself in a very bad impression of Slavik’s accent. “Pieces of boat…all I see are pieces of boat…lots of pieces of boat.”