Sponsored Post

John H. Cunningham’s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Green to Go:

Buck Reilly went to hell and back in Red Right Return. In Green to Go, it’s a one-way trip. Good news turns bad fast, and the bad just keeps coming in this thrilling new Buck Reilly adventure. The unexpected contents of his parent’s Swiss bank account offer Buck a chance to dig himself out of the hole he’s been in since the recession hit, but first he must recover the treasure maps and clues he lost at sea. Those plans get put on hold when a friend is accused of orchestrating the biggest theft in Key West’s sordid history, and the FBI uses Buck’s past against him to demand that he search for the thieves who fled aboard a hundred year-old schooner.

No good deed goes unpunished, and Buck’s dogged by greed and double-crosses from Key West to the Bahamas and points south. His hunt for the missing treasure pits him against a crazed mercenary, Peruvian rebels, rogue Cuban Secret Police and a beautiful woman torn between turning Buck over to the authorities or succumbing to his charm.

Buck’s a lot like the rest of us—trying to make ends meet and hoping for better times. He operates Last Resort Charter and Salvage, flying a 1946 amphibious Grumman Widgeon, hunting for sunken treasure and taking on an occasional passenger, no questions asked. GREEN TO GO is the second book in the series.

Accolade:

Green to Go currently has a review rating of 5 stars from 9 reviews. Read the reviews here.

Green to Go is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!

An excerpt from Green to Go:

Geneva, Switzerland“

You could’ve at least worn a suit, Buck.”

Ben was wearing one of my old Armani suits. When you owe someone money, a lot of money, nothing’s sacred. If my linen pants and aqua green fishing shirt weren’t out of place here, my flip-flops were.

On the table was today’s International Herald Tribune. Typical headlines: Raul Castro ’s Funeral . . . United Nations Troops in Darfur . . . U.S. Warns Iran . . . There’s something different, Demonstrations in Peru. Just the name of that country brought back memories of fast friends and past adventures. The first paragraph stated that Javier Guzman, one of the candidates in the upcoming presidential election, demanded that the European nations who had stolen thousands of tons of silver from Peruvian soil centuries ago provide just compensation now. His rhetoric had launched a wave of frenetic nationalism across the country.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

A tall young woman in a tight blue skirt and starched white blouse marched through the cavernous lobby. Her high heels pounded the granite floor like ball peen hammers. I swallowed but had run dry of saliva. Her blond hair was cropped short and her blue eyes were shielded behind metalframed glasses. She was a precise beauty.

“Mr. Reilly?”

“Yes?” Ben and I said at the same time.

No smile.

“Come with me, please.”

No accent, either.

We followed her through a metal gate and into a small waiting room. She directed us toward a computer terminal and instructed us to enter our account numbers. Ben went first, and I noticed a small bald patch on the back of his crew cut. My hair was still as thick as ever. Guess that gene must have skipped me. Ben finished, then moved aside.

Once we were done, a green light lit the screen. So far, so good.

The woman led us down another hallway and into a smaller room with a table and two chairs. We remained standing.

“I’ll return momentarily.”

Ben turned to me when we were alone.

“I wasn’t sure they’d let us in, considering the investigations into your—”

“It’s over, Ben. And now’s not the time.” I motioned around the heavily monitored room.

He shook his head and shifted his focus to the door. With family, the past is always present. Once tagged good or bad, you’re forever judged in that light, especially when the media dumps gas on the fire.

Moments later, Ms. Personality reappeared pushing a stainless steel cart with what appeared to be a keg sitting on top. She stopped the cart next to the table.

“Your keys, gentlemen?”

Ben pulled a chain up from inside the open collar of his shirt. His key was a duplicate to the one I’d stored in my waterproof pouch and hidden below the seat in my 1946 Grumman Widgeon. Mine had been stolen by a Key West art dealer cum Cuban spy named Manny Gutierrez and wound up on the bottom of the Florida straits just outside the Cuban territorial line.

The woman and Ben stared at me.

“I don’t have my key.”

Ben closed his eyes and the woman stood even straighter.

“I’m sorry, but you must have—”

“I’ll be using the five-letter code established as an alternate.”

“Dad’s ciphers? Are you kidding?”

The woman opened a narrow drawer on the side of the steel cart and withdrew a small apparatus that resembled a credit card machine used in European restaurants.

“Re-enter your account number, and when prompted, enter the fivespace response,” she said.

The machine nearly slipped from my glistening palms. I caught Ben’s head-shake out of the corner of my eye and his long sigh filled the silence. All the different five-letter combinations I’d considered tumbled through my head.

“There were what, five ciphers?” Ben said. “I tried to figure them out, just out of curiosity, and got nowhere. How could you—”

“They all led to a last one which was a statement, not a cipher,” I said.

“‘Love of my life.’ Guess this is the only way to know for sure.”

“That’s great, Buck. I financed this trip—you could have told me—this will be the last straw if—”

“Mr. Reilly, please.”

I licked my lips and my index finger hovered over the keypad that contained all twenty-six letters of the alphabet, along with the numbers zero through nine.

“While we’re young, Buck,” Ben said.

I turned away to shield the keyboard. I pressed a “B” and no alarm sounded, so I continued. “E,” “T,” “T,” “Y.”

A phrase in what I assumed to be German appeared on the screen. I handed it back to our hostess, who read it and pursed her lips. Ben and I stared at her with open mouths.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” She hugged the small machine as she left. Ben turned to me. “You lost the fucking key? Are you kidding me?”

“Not now, Ben—”

“After everything—”

“Drop it.” My gritted teeth stopped him mid-bitch.

The woman reappeared, alone. From her pocket she removed a key.

“I’m sorry, I had to retrieve this from the vault. Normally account holders alert us when a key has been lost.”

“There’s nothing normal about my brother,” Ben said.

She inserted both keys into slots on top of the cylinder and turned them.

A green light pulsed.

“I’ll be in the anteroom. When you’re finished press the button by the door and I’ll return. You may use the briefcase on the cart if you need one.”

She offered enough of a smile that I could see perfect white teeth peeking out from behind her thin pink lips. She closed the door behind her.

Ben put his hand on the handle next to the keys.

“Let’s hope you’ll be able to pay me back all the money I’ve lent you,” he said.

My heart leapt and I slapped my hand on top of his.

“Can we take a minute to think of Mom and Dad before opening this?”

He laughed. “Now you want to get sentimental? They would never have had this account—or been in Switzerland at all—if your freaking company hadn’t been cooking its books and cratered. And if you hadn’t warned them—”

“Then you wouldn’t have inherited all their wealth, so let’s leave it at that, okay?”

“—There never would have been an accident that killed them, Buck, and I’ll never forget that. You’re just lucky Dodson took the fall.” “He was the one who cooked the books, Ben.”

My partner from e-Antiquity, Jack Dodson, was still in jail after being convicted of fraudulent conveyance of assets. The FBI had been unable to prove the same against me, which is why I was able to flee to Key West with the airplane Ben had reluctantly bought me. Once there I started Last Resort Charters and Salvage. The old flying boat allowed me to make use of the copies of the treasure maps I’d squirreled away when e-Antiquity tanked, but they too were stolen by Manny Gutierrez and lost at sea along with my Swiss Bank key.

With a tug Ben opened the vault. I saw his eyes widen.

“Oh, my, God . . .” he said.

“What is it?” He reached inside. “This can’t be . . .”

As he withdrew his hands I recognized the contents. Not cash, not stock certificates, not precious metals.

He pressed his face into the open cylinder.

“That’s it?” he said.

I smiled.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “So much for you paying me back, big brother.”

The contents fell from his hands and landed with a thud onto the table. It was a notebook wrapped in plastic and secured with a rubber band. Our father had been a career Foreign Service officer who at one point was considered as a candidate for Secretary of State, but he was also a dreamer. He encouraged me to start e-Antiquity and was our original venture capitalist, so when I realized e-Antiquity’s financial fantasy ride was about to hit the wall—

“Is this what you sent him as you hurtled toward insolvency? All your secret maps?” He paused. “The evidence the Feds need to prove the insider trading?”

“For which you’re the sole benefactor, thank you very much.”

The notebook contained the originals of all the maps and research information that could lead to many lost treasures.

“I was going to let you have all of what was in here anyway, less what you owe me, but I don’t want anything to do with . . .”

“History?”

“Ha! Treasure maps, unauthenticated ones at that? Old letters and miscellaneous ramblings of ne’er-do-wells?” His mouth hardened. “This is what got Mom and Dad killed, you know.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Treasure hunting,” he said, “the original lottery, but with worse odds.” I peeled back the rubber bands and the notebook sprang open. Each of the archival plastic sleeves contained documents with unique stories, historic relevance, my team’s sweat from scouring the globe for them. Not

to mention the dregs of our investors’ capital. All of it squirreled away to prevent them being sold at the bankruptcy auction with the rest of e-Antiquity’s assets—what’s this?

A lone envelope stuck out from the middle of the plastic sheaths. Ben saw it at the same time and plucked it out.

Written on the front: “Charles B. Reilly, III.”

Ben tore it open.

“Hey, I’m the one—”

“It’s a letter from Dad,” Ben said.

“Can I—”

“Son—”

“Okay, Ben, fine. You read it.”

Son, If you’ re seeing this for the first time, it’s because we never had the chance to discuss it. It never mattered to us, and it shouldn’t’ t to you.

Your mother was told early in our marriage that she couldn’t’ t have children, so we set out on this course. Your brother was a surprise, a few years later. You have always been our son, even if you weren’t’ t born a Reilly. We love you no different than had you been, so don’ t let this change a thing.

These papers are all we have from the adoption. The laws were very specific back when you were born, and the birth mother’s anonymity was always protected. We will not be hurt in the least if you choose to pursue your past, and given that you’ re now over thirty, we encourage you to do so for medical history purposes, at least.

We are your parents, and you are our son.

That will never change.

We love you.

Mom and Dad.

Silence.

I was adopted?

He dropped the letter on the table and I picked it up. It was Dad’s handwriting, for sure. Adopted? Really?

“Wow.” Ben shook his head. “Must be a shock to the system, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“It does explain a lot.”

What? I couldn’t believe I was adopted and only finding out now.

“Good luck with all your maps, Buck. See you around.”

I heard a buzzer, the door opened, then Ben was gone. I slumped into a chair. I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach, kicked in the nuts, hit over the head with a 2×4.

I was adopted?

Green to Go is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!

Connect with John H. Cunningham: