Corozal
T
hey were sitting on the patio of the guest house with Lt. Al Kramer resting a wounded leg and Chief Bosun’s Mate Jerry Scoggins mixing drinks when Shake’s phone vibrated on a glass table top. He snatched at it, checked the caller ID, and punched up the connection. “Gunner Davis. Send it.”
“First things first, I guess.” The man who calls himself Bayer sounded tired and Shake thought he could hear an aircraft engine in the background. “I think we’ve got the Lieutenant Kramer problem solved.” Shake looked across the table where Mike Stokey was sipping scotch whiskey. He mouthed the word Bayer, pointed at Kramer, and winked.
“He’s right here trying to keep Mike from drinking all his whiskey. Fill me in and we’ll pass the word.” Shake began to smile and nod as he got the details.
