Read Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) for Free Online

matter. But that's all I told Kim. No need to mention the two gents who tried to drag the girl into their pickup truck or what had happened after their attempt. I thought about the message Dave had left on my cell phone after recognizing my voice on the 911 call.
    Max stopped, ears rising, nostrils testing the breeze, her eyes like heat-seeking missiles locking on smoke drifting from the
St. Michael
. The boat was forty feet in length with a much longer lineage connected to ancient mariners who sailed the Sea of Galilee two-thousand years ago.
St. Michael
was designed with an Old World style bow that could take high waves. The wheelhouse looked like it was lifted from a small tugboat and plopped near the bow. The large, open transom was intended for commercial fishing, and its captain, Nick Cronus, was one of the best in the business.
    Nick stepped from the salon door, lifted the hood on his small grill perched in the center of his cockpit, and turned over a piece of fish. The smell of garlic, lemon, olive oil, and grilled fish filled the air. The smoke rose like a ghost beckoning Max. That's all it took. She barked once and darted down the dock toward
St. Michael.
Nick spun around, greeting her with a wide smile and open arms. “Hot Dog!” he bellowed. “Come see Uncle Nicky.” Max trotted to the boat; Nick, leaning over the side of
St Michael,
scooped her up in one hand and stepped to the grill, Max’s tail wagging in overdrive.
    Nick, born in Greece, made a living from the sea, and he looked it. Wide shoulders, forearms like hams, olive skin, thick moustache, black eyes that smiled, and a mop of dark, curly hair styled from sun, surf, and salt. We’d become close after I pulled two bikers off Nick late one night. They’d accused him of making a pass at one of their women, and they jumped him from behind in the parking lot after the Tiki Bar closed. They were using a tire iron on his wrists and knees, and were about to split his skull when I pulled up and caught them in my high beams. I’d stepped out of my Jeep, Glock extended. Show over. I’ll always remember Nick looking up at me through swollen eyes, teeth red with blood, broken jaw, a shattered wrist, and grinning wide. “There’s a special bond when a man saves another man's life,” he said later. “I got your back forever.”
    That was about three years ago. I stepped from the dock onto the cockpit of
St. Michael
and Nick said, “I’ll toss some more grouper on the grill. Wanna beer?”
    “Little early for me. Stopped at McDonalds for breakfast.”
    “Sean, you feed Max fast food and you'll clog her little arteries. That stuff's not chicken of the sea.” Nick used his fingers to break off a small piece of fish from the grill and hand-fed it to Max. “That's better, hot dog. No more chicken nuggets for you.”
    “Kim told me you helped Bobby and his crew put
Jupiter
back in the water. Thanks.”
    “No problem. New props looked good. Everything is jam up and jelly tight. After they lowered her from the sling, I just helped the boys dock her. Bilge is purring.
Jupiter's
lookin' damn sexy.” He took a long pull from a sweating can of Miller, his eyes animated, face hot. He gently lowered Max to the cockpit, looked over my shoulder, and said, “Here comes Dave. He had to go get a newspaper. Still likes reading them rather than using his tablet, phone, or computer. But he has to drive farther and farther to find a place that sells papers anymore.”
    Dave Collins, dressed in shorts, flip-flops, Hawaiian print shirt hanging loose, carried a large Styrofoam cup of coffee, a small brown bag, and a folded newspaper. For a man in his late sixties he stayed in good shape, wide chest, thick wrists, white hair, beard neatly trimmed. His ruddy face was lined from a career in covert intelligence, the creases intersected with laugh lines around his mouth. His penetrating blue eyes were filled with wisdom and humor. He smiled and said, “Smells good, Nick. Sean