It was now nearly noon and she hadn’t returned. Maybe she really is what she says, Rene thought. But his gut instinct told him otherwise.
So he continued waiting patiently. He’d left the scooter on the upwind end of the airstrip. It was only a few feet off the road, but completely swallowed up by the jungle undergrowth, and invisible to passersby.
Near the airport fence, he’d climbed a tree and now sat comfortably on a large branch, with his back against the trunk. His pack hung on the stump of a smaller branch, just beside him. In the pack was enough food, in the form of meals-ready-to-eat, to last him all day and all night, if need be.
As a field agent with the CIA, he’d spent hours, sometimes days, watching from a distance. He’d grown used to the MRE pouches, unlike many other agents who constantly complained about the bland taste.
Another hour passed, the seventh since he’d climbed up in the tree. In the distance, he began to hear the faint beating sound of a helicopter. It echoed slightly as it came through the high pass to the east, most of the sound absorbed by the thick jungle. Moments later, he spotted the black chopper and trained his field glasses on it, as it flew west on the north side of the airport.
Minutes later, he could see it again, as the helo descended toward the airstrip directly in front of him. As it got nearer, the powerful binoculars brought the cockpit into sharp focus. Gabriella Fleming appeared to be alone, focused on her approach behind a pair of dark aviator-type sunglasses.
Once the chopper was finally on the ground, Rene continued to watch as she climbed out and walked all the way around the bird, inspecting every square inch of the fuselage.
Finally, she turned toward an approaching fuel truck. When it stopped, she climbed up on the running board to talk to the driver, then walked toward the private aviation terminal.
Rene quickly stowed the field glasses in his pack and climbed down from the tree. Riding the scooter, he made it to the parking lot entrance and stopped just as the woman came out and got into a waiting taxi. Rene noticed it was the same cab that had delivered her to the airport this morning.
Again, he followed the taxi at a safe distance all the way back to the hotel. There, the woman paid the cab driver and disappeared through the door to the lobby. He waited five minutes before parking the scooter and going inside himself.
The woman was nowhere to be seen. Approaching the desk, he smiled at the young woman on duty. “Did I just see Gabriella Fleming returning? I was hoping to catch her in the restaurant at dinner time.”
The young lady returned his smile. “Yes, sir. She stopped here long enough to order a sandwich to be brought up to her room.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
“Ah, I guess I’ll have to wait and talk to her later, thanks.”
Rene took the elevator up to his room and went immediately to his laptop. He wasn’t completely devoid of computer skills and had already hacked into the airport’s system, so he could keep an eye on arrivals and departures. After a few minutes, he was able to access the fixed base operator’s fuel logs. The most recent entry was an FBO sale of three hundred and fifty gallons of Jet-A to Tropical Luxury Magazine.
“Interesting,” Rene mumbled. A Huey only has slightly more than a two-hundred-gallon gas tank, he thought. She must have an extra tank.
With a burn rate of seventy or so gallons an hour and a cruising speed of a hundred miles per hour, he quickly calculated that wherever she went it was about four or five hundred miles, round trip.
“That’s a lot of ocean,” he said to himself. Going up and over the mountains, probably meant she flew somewhere east of here, but the nearest land going east is Africa. She went over the mountains to pick someone up, then they went either north to the Windwards or south to the mainland.
“That, or she is what she says she is,” he concluded.
Charity woke suddenly. She’d been exhausted after dropping Napier at his house and getting the bird back to the airport. She’d checked it over very closely and found no bullet holes, which was good. If someone else noticed one, it would become very suspicious that she’d not reported it. After arranging for fuel, she’d come straight back to the hotel, ordered a sandwich brought up from room service, then eaten and gone to bed.
Looking at the clock on the nightstand, Charity saw that it was just after midnight. She’d been awakened by another dream. This one wasn’t like the others that sometimes crept into her sub-conscious at night, though.
Wearing only a faded yellow Gaspar’s Revenge tee-shirt, Charity stepped out onto the south facing balcony. The shirt was a gift from one of her former co-workers, when she’d spent several weeks on his boat, looking for a man. The friend operated a charter fishing service in the Florida Keys as a cover. They’d finally tracked the man down and she’d killed him.
The return to the Keys on Jesse McDermitt’s boat had been unhurried. Over a period of several days, she’d opened up to the man, more so than with any of the VA shrinks she’d talked with. He had a very easy-going way about him, and she’d felt comfortable when she was around him.
In a moment of loneliness, she wondered where Jesse and her other former co-workers were and what they were doing. It had now been several months since she pulled off of the search for Jesse and flown to Miami to disappear. At times, usually at night, she wondered if they knew what had really happened to her. In ways she couldn’t explain or comprehend, it was important to her that the members of her former team, especially McDermitt, know that she wasn’t a turncoat, that she hadn’t abandoned them.
A crescent moon, halfway up the eastern sky, illuminated the sea and everything on it. Several sailboats lay at anchor in the small bay beneath her. To the southwest, away from the light of the moon and the city, stars flickered against the black background of space.
The dream that had awakened her was puzzling. Most dreams were puzzling, but even more so when you tried to recall them and determine their meaning. In her dream, she’d been talking to the same man that she’d seen in dreams a few times this past week. Those other times, he’d only appeared in a sort of haze, and she was never able to make out any features.
This time, the man was with someone else. A woman. The dream was clearer this time and Charity could tell that both the man and woman were very old. She couldn’t recall the woman’s features but felt as though she was much older than the man. However, when the woman moved, she carried herself like a much younger woman.
As she stared out over the calm sea, Charity tried to recall the old man’s features. She immediately saw the Indian farmer in her mind’s eye, standing calmly and looking at the helicopter as if he’d been expecting it. Charity knew it was the farmer she’d seen in previous dreams.
She’d never believed much in the occult, nor was she overly religious. Charity Styles believed in the things she could see, touch, hear, taste, and smell. Outside of those five senses, she just wasn’t sure about anything. But Napier had said the man was a witch doctor of some kind.
In the dream, the three of them had talked at length about something very important, but she couldn’t recall a single word of the conversation. The old man struck her as a very kind and gentle person, but fiercely loyal—to whom or what, she had no idea. But he seemed to be quite entranced to be in the presence of the old woman.
A slight breeze flattened the tee-shirt against her body, pulling at the hem just below her hips. She stared up at the moon, her hands on the rail, as the gentle breeze caressed her. She closed her eyes and imagined being up there with the moon, looking down on what was taking place below.
Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep just yet, Charity went inside and turned on her laptop. She knew that if she posted a message, it would be received immediately and answered as quickly as the information could be attained.
Charity quickly composed an email, giving the names of the old farmer and the head of security, and asking for any intelligence on either of them and more background on Thurman
Napier after his separation from the military. When she finished, she read the message, then stepped back out onto the balcony again without saving it.
The wind was blowing a little stronger now, lifting the bottom of the lightweight tee-shirt, exposing her bare body. The only light in the room was the glow from the screen of the laptop and she was six stories up. There was no chance that anyone could see her, so she didn’t bother to hold the shirt in place.
She stared up at the moon and again imagined herself being up there. When she closed her eyes, she imagined the parts of the Manamo River she’d seen the day before. Charity imagined looking down on the vast, dark river delta and the surrounding jungle and farmland.
In a startling moment of clarity, with her eyes closed, Charity saw a small campfire near the river, people huddled around it, chanting. Sparks from the fire drifted up toward her along with two words—move slowly.
Charity quickly went back inside and added another note to the email before saving it in the drafts folder.
I’ll need to borrow Jesse’s suit.
Sitting at a table in the rooftop restaurant, Rene had a commanding view of the front of the hotel and the road approaching it. If the woman left, it would probably be to go to the airport again. In the hour since dawn, a couple of taxis had arrived and departed, while he sat there drinking coffee. But not the one Gabriella had taken yesterday.
While it might have only been a coincidence that she took the same cab twice, Rene Cook didn’t believe in coincidences—and the fact that she did take the same taxi only reinforced his idea that she was with the American government.
The bell-tone rang and he glanced over to see the elevator open. Gabriella Fleming stepped off, with two younger men who appeared to be hitting on her hard enough to leave dents.
She looked around the restaurant, saw him and waved. Then she said something to the two young men and, without waiting for a reply, approached his table.
“Would you mind some company, Mister Cook?” she asked.
“Looks like you were under attack there,” Rene replied, wary. He stood and pulled a chair out for her. “Please call me Rene.”
“An attack on two fronts,” she said, smiling and sitting in the offered chair. “Thank you, Rene.”
He sat back down and studied the woman’s face. She was strikingly beautiful, with strong features, full lips, and an athletic body. There was something about her that he just couldn’t put his finger on. Something just a little off.
Her hair, Rene thought. Thick and beautiful, but the color or shade doesn’t quite fit. She wouldn’t be the first woman who dyed her hair at the appearance of the first gray.
He remained silent, waiting for her to open the conversation.
“You’re up early,” she finally said.
“I’m always up before the dawn,” he replied.
“Why is that?”
The question was innocent enough. Just small talk.
“Not sure, really,” Rene replied. “I’ve just always been one to start the day early. What about you?”
The waiter arrived with a coffee pot and another cup on a small saucer. Gabriella nodded at him and he placed the cup in front of her and filled it. The waiter glanced at Rene, and he nodded as well.
They each took a sip of coffee as the waiter retreated. “I grew up on a farm,” she replied. “We always had an hour or two of chores to do before sunrise and breakfast.”
He noted her slight accent. “You grew up in Cuba?”
She smiled brightly. “Yes, but we left there when I was just a girl. Escaped during the Mariel boat lift to Florida.”
“Ah, I see. But you left at an old enough age that you still have a slight accent.”
“I’ll save you the math, Rene,” Gabriella said with a confident smile. “I’m thirty-three years old.”
Rene had in fact been calculating what her age might be, but not for the reason she might have thought.
No more dancing around the subject.
“You sure could have fooled me,” he said, smiling back. “Most field agents are younger.”
For the briefest moment, her eyes flashed, then returned to the sparkling green they were before. “Field agent?”
“And not a very good one.”
Again, her eyes flashed. In that microsecond, Rene sensed that there was something behind them. Something bordering on insane rage or a deep hurt. But he was now certain about who she was.
“Your choice is simple,” Rene said flatly. “Report back to your superiors that I disappeared, or you will.”
A puzzled look came over her features and, for a moment, Rene thought he might be wrong. Then her hand moved almost imperceptibly toward her bag. When Rene thumbed the hammer on his gun, hidden under the table, she heard it and froze, fear replacing bewilderment in her eyes. The fact that she recognized the sound reinforced in his mind that his first instinct was correct.
She remained motionless, and an inner confidence again returned to her features. Her voice lowered and the accent disappeared. “I have no idea who or what you are. You are not why I’m here.”
“I wish I could believe that, Miss Fleming, or whatever your name is.”
Her eyes never left his, but she seemed to resign herself to the situation. “My real name’s Charity Styles.”
“Agent Charity Styles,” Rene corrected her. “With Central Intelligence?”
“No. Homeland Security.”
“Homeland Security? I guess I must have hit the big time.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, a bit of impatience in her voice.
“I know the Agency wants me dead. What’d I do to get DHS onto me?”
Slowly, the woman’s expression changed. Not the red-hot rage that had flashed momentarily in her eyes before, but a growing annoyance. “We’re three feet apart,” she said, in a low and menacing tone. “You will get only one shot, and I won’t have to move much to make it a flesh wound. Even injured, I can still kill you before you can pull the trigger a second time.”
“You’re that confident against an unknown armed adversary?”
“I’m that confident against any adversary,” she replied.
Looking into this woman’s eyes, Rene no longer felt quite as confident. “Why are you here, then?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with anyone,” she replied. “But it has nothing to do with you.”
“It seems we’re at an impasse then,” Rene said.
“Yes, it does,” she replied. “The way I see it, we can do this one of two ways.”
“And those are?”
The rage in her emerald eyes seemed to smolder with a deep burning fire, as if another person were looking at him. “You can pull that trigger, I’ll bleed, and you’ll die. The second option is you put the gun back in your pocket and we agree to walk away.”
Rene had always prided himself on being able to read people. Everyone had a tell, and he was good at picking up on them. Right now, he sensed that she could very well carry out the threat. Most people, when faced with an armed assailant, didn’t react this way.
“I’m not after you,” she said.
Rene sensed that her body was inwardly coiling like a snake ready to strike, every muscle tensing.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said in a near-whisper. Suddenly Rene felt more vulnerable than he had in his whole life. “But, make no mistake about this: you’ll be dead before you can fire a second shot. Make your choice now, Rene. I have things to do.”
His instincts had been correct, but he realized he’d mistaken her disinterest in him as poor field craft. She wasn’t after him at all, and he fully believed that he was now facing one of the most dangerous people he ever had.
Slowly, Rene decocked the gun and deliberately put it back in his pocket. With a nervous grin, he said, “I believe you.”
Without a word, Charity slowly stood up, then turned and walked toward the elevator. One of the two young men who h
ad ridden up with her on the elevator got up from his table and started toward her, his friend just a few steps behind.
Rene remained seated as he watched the man, probably in his early twenties, slim and capable-looking, reach a hand out to grab the woman’s shoulder. As soon as his hand touched her, she moved in a blur, spinning into and under his grasp, taking his hand with her, until she pushed it to the back of his neck, nearly lifting the much larger man off his feet.
Both men were caught unaware as Charity yanked up hard on the first man’s arm and he screamed in pain. She pushed him away, planted her right foot in the middle of his back, and shoved him into his friend with such force that they both went tumbling to the ground.
“I told you I wasn’t interested!” she screamed maniacally at the two men, lying on the floor. Then she disappeared into the elevator.
At his table, a slow, nervous grin crept over Rene’s face.
Riding down in the elevator, Charity thought about Rene Cook. Someone who the CIA wants dead? He seemed to know the inner workings of the nation’s top intelligence community. She didn’t know a whole lot about the Agency herself, but she knew someone who did.
As soon as she entered her room, she pulled her phone from her purse and made a call. Her standing orders were to never use the phone, except in an emergency. Having a gun unexpectedly pointed at her by someone she didn’t know, and had been told was not a threat, seemed like an emergency.
The phone rang five times before Travis Stockwell answered, without preamble. “Is there a problem?”
“The man I spoke of earlier, Rene Cook? He just pointed a gun at me and threatened me.”
“Christ,” Stockwell muttered. “Tell me where the body is, and I’ll move assets to the area to clean things up. This is unfortunate. Will you be able to continue?”
“He’s still alive,” Charity said. “He seemed to think I was with the CIA and was here after him.”
Ruthless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 2) Page 11