Her eyes lit up at the mention of flying. “In your old seaplane?” she asked. Charity was once an Army helicopter pilot and had flown Deuce’s team around on occasion.
“Wanna go?” I asked, without thinking. “I keep Island Hopper at Rusty’s place and was gonna fly down after my swim.”
“Let’s go,” she said, turning toward the channel.
“You’re going to leave your dinghy here?”
“There’s nothing in it,” she replied, pulling off her shorts and tossing them into the little boat. “I left a go-bag in the bunkhouse with some clothes in it. If it’s not there anymore, you always have women’s clothes in your boat.”
Turning, I followed her and waded into the water, adjusting my goggles. In a flash, Charity dove and disappeared, only to surface ten yards ahead of me. I dove in after her, following the stream of bubbles left by her kicking feet.
By the time we reached the edge of the channel and turned toward my island, I’d caught up to her, but she increased speed and it was all I could do to stay close. I’m a better than average swimmer, but Charity was an Olympian. She’d been a bronze medalist at the games in Sydney, and obviously kept in top shape, probably swimming daily. Throw in the fact that she was at least ten years younger than me, and I was quite pleased with myself to have stayed close.
When we reached the pier on the north side of the island, I was breathing hard on my right side with every stroke. I swam up beside where she was treading water. Finn ran back and forth on the pier above her, barking.
“Charity, meet Finn,” I said, between breaths.
He stopped barking as we climbed up onto the pier. We shared the towel, then walked to the base of the pier, where I led her around the west bunkhouse to the small comm office.
Both bunkhouses had been built identical, but I’d soon found out that Deuce’s team also consisted of women. Carl had built a partition in one, essentially making two rooms. The other bunkhouse was a single room with bunk beds. This one had four sets of bunks on one side and two in the office half, along with desks, computers, monitors, and other electronics. Chyrel stayed here quite often, but not in the last few months.
Charity opened the door and walked in. “Right where I left it, eighteen months ago,” she said, opening the small closet in the corner and pulling down a black gym bag. “How soon do you want to leave?”
“Be ready in twenty minutes?”
“I’ll be ready,” she said, grabbing the towel from my hand and heading out the door. “Does the shower on the pier still work?”
“Yeah, but it’s not hot.”
“That’s fine,” she said, disappearing around the corner.
Closing the door, I trotted across the yard toward the house. I quickly got another towel from inside and went out to the back deck, where the outdoor shower was. I lathered up, still wearing my swim trunks, and looked out toward the north pier. The water, slightly warm from the sun, sprayed down my back.
From the high vantage point of the deck, I could see Charity on the pier, rinsing the seawater from her hair. The same warm water from the cistern above me was cascading down her nude body. A splash of color on the pier railing showed where she’d left her bikini.
My face flushed, and I quickly looked away and turned off the water. No doubt she was an attractive woman—many would say drop-dead gorgeous—but I’d never seen her in that way. She was a friend, and a former co-worker.
And, frankly, not altogether right in the head, making her easily manipulated. Plus she was quite a few years younger than me.
Devon is younger, too, the pervert on my shoulder reminded me as I went inside to change.
After getting into a clean pair of jeans, a long-sleeved work shirt, and nearly worn-out boat shoes, I pulled open a drawer and took out a holstered nine-millimeter Sig-Sauer P226, clipping it inside the waistband of my pants behind my back.
I almost collided with Charity when I pulled the door open and stepped out onto the deck.
“Are you sure nobody will know me where we’re going?” she asked, stepping back.
“Rusty will,” I said, just a bit flustered. I was having a hard time getting the image of her naked body out of my mind.
“The fat, bald guy?” she asked. “He’s your friend, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, putting on my sunglasses and trying to regain my composure. “I can’t pull into the Anchor and not stop in. But one word from me and he’ll be the only one to know. Don’t let his girth fool you; he can still move pretty quickly. That man, I trust one hundred percent.”
After telling Finn to stay, I took the little Grady again. Not knowing what the weather would be in the afternoon, I preferred its solid ride in a chop a lot more than my Maverick, or the runabout Carl and I had built. Finn had only been up in the plane with me once and he didn’t seem to care for it.
Charity and I didn’t talk much as I brought the Grady up on plane in Harbor Channel. She seemed to relax against the leaning post next to me as we made a wide turn south, following about three feet of water through the shallows. Straightening on a course that would take us to the Seven Mile Bridge, which was just out of sight, I glanced over at her.
She seemed very calm and was smiling. She wore khaki shorts and a loose-fitting, navy-blue pullover blouse with a wide neckline hanging over a bare shoulder. She moved easily with the boat, reading the waves and shifting her body, without having to hang onto the T-top rail. Our shoulders or hips occasionally bumped, reminding me of the proximity.
“Are you carrying?” I asked, raising my voice against the buffeting wind.
“Everywhere I go,” she replied, looking out over the water. “You?”
“Most of the time,” I replied, looking forward again.
“Who are you going to see in Key West?”
“Friend of a friend,” I said. “He’s an archaeologist and might know something about an emerald I have.”
“An emerald?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled the folded handkerchief out, letting it fall open behind the windscreen, as I held the stone firmly. I opened my hand slightly, to keep the wind from yanking the handkerchief out of my hand.
“It’s huge!” she said, staring in awe.
“Yeah, I thought so, too. This guy I’m going to see should be able to tell me more about it.”
We rode most of the rest of the way in silence. She watched the islands and shoals pass by, occasionally asking a question about one, but said nothing more about her mistrust of Stockwell or why she came to me.
It only took twenty minutes to get to the Rusty Anchor. I wanted to ask her about the last eighteen months, but figured she’d tell me when she was ready.
“I’m not crazy,” she said in a quiet voice as we tied up to the dock at the Anchor.
“Nobody said you were, Charity.”
“You’re the only person who knows what really happened in Afghanistan.”
My reply was simple. “I know.”
Two years ago, the two of us had spent several weeks together on the Revenge, hunting down Stockwell’s predecessor, Jason Smith. He was responsible for the death of a young man Charity had just started a relationship with—a man I’d considered my friend. We had discovered that Smith was behind an attempt to kill Deuce and me, and that he’d murdered his first wife many years before.
When we found Smith, Charity killed him with her bare hands.
She acted a little jumpy, constantly looking around as we walked across the yard toward the bar.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” I said. “We’re just a man and a woman going for an airplane ride.”
We walked to the bar, and I opened the door. There were only a few people scattered at tables, the leftovers from the liveaboard breakfast bunch. Some I recognized, but none of them would know Charity. I noticed that she looked at each person in the room, as if memorizing their features.
Behind the bar, Rusty saw who was with me. His eyes went wide and he was about to
say something, when a look from me stopped him.
“You remember Charity,” I said, as we took a couple of stools at the bar.
“Nice to see you again,” Rusty said, obviously puzzled.
Charity reached across the bar and shook his hand. “I’m flying down to Key West with Jesse,” she said, as if that would be a sufficient explanation.
“Incognito,” I whispered.
Rusty regained his composure immediately, but gave me a questioning look. A slight nod of my head let him know that everything was okay and he could speak freely.
“I talked to Ray again this morning,” Rusty said. “You better get a move on. Buck’s got an afternoon charter.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No, just Ray. I left Buck a message at La Concha, where he’s staying, but he hasn’t called back.”
“Then we’d better get going,” I said, rising from my stool. “Don’t want to miss the man.” I extended my hand and Rusty took it. Leaning over the bar, I added, “Not a word to anyone, bro.”
“You got it,” he replied. “Be careful.”
Walking out toward the plane, I saw a small boat approaching the channel. I recognized it as belonging to Mac Travis, a guy who lives on an island not far from me. In fact, he was my nearest neighbor, about a mile as the gull flies.
“Before we leave,” I told Charity, “I have some checks I need to make on the engine. You mind grabbing our gear from the boat?”
She nodded and turned away, walking confidently toward the far end of the dock. Grabbing a ladder from the shed next to the plane’s concrete pad, I stepped up and removed the starboard engine cowling.
On the ladder, I had my head up between the engine and firewall when Mac approached. He stopped several yards away, as if he wasn’t sure he should interrupt. The new weld on the frame seemed to be fine, no signs of cracking or anything, so I stepped down slightly and looked at my neighbor.
“Hey, Mac, what are you up to?”
“A little fishing, a little salvage,” Mac said.
Like me, Mac didn’t engage in idle chit-chat.
“We ought to go out sometime,” I said, just to get him talking. I could tell something was on his mind. “Maybe hit the mahi.”
“They’ll be here next week,” Mac said. “We was down in the Marquesas and did pretty well with them yesterday.”
“How’s that old boy of yours?”
Mac knew I meant his Cajun first-mate, Trufante.
“Same old,” he replied. I waited, figuring any trouble Mac was having probably had something to do with Tru. He pointed toward the plane with his chin. “Listen, if you feel like taking a ride in that thing, I got something strange going on.”
“Any excuse to fly is a good one,” I said.
“My EPIRB was stolen and the Coast Guard just called with a location it was set off.”
“Whereabouts?” I asked, wondering why anyone would steal an emergency beacon. The only use for it is to indicate your position to people looking for you.
“Down past Key West,” he replied, pointing to the southwest. “Near Boca Grande Key.”
“Tell you what. Give me a hand wrapping up this maintenance and we can take her up.” The air filter hose was always a pain. It usually took two people. So why not take advantage of free labor?
He helped me get the stubborn air filter hose loose and a new filter installed before Charity returned. I was putting the ladder away when she approached carrying both our go-bags.
She looked warily at Mac, then turned to me. “We going?”
“Just about ready,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag then closing the little utility shed. “This is Mac. We’re going to take a little detour and check on something for him.”
Extending her hand, she introduced herself as Gabby and started around to the other side of the plane. I figured I’d let her decide how much or how little to tell him, and walked around the plane with her.
I opened the back door and said, “Mac’s good people. Tell him as little or as much as you want, up to you, but he’s someone I trust.”
She climbed into the backseat without a word and I followed, going forward to the cockpit. I opened the little side window for ventilation and went through a quick pre-flight.
Locating Mac visually, I called out, “Clear prop!” as I pulled the engine through two blades with the magneto off, just to make sure no oil had pooled in the lower cylinders. I switched it on, and the engine turned one more blade and fired. It coughed once, belching a cloud of thick blue-gray smoke, and then it settled into its typical rumbling idle.
I signaled Mac with my thumb and he quickly released the tie-downs, then climbed into the right-hand seat and buckled in. He started to yell over the engine noise, but I pointed to a set of headphones hanging in front of him.
While the engine warmed up, I called Miami Center to check air traffic and inform them of our intent. Then I gave Mac a quick briefing of the radio and GPS, before releasing the brakes and taxiing down toward the boat ramp. A Beaver on land is an awkward and ungainly beast, bouncing with every crack in the concrete. With the wings and cabin roof nearly ten feet above the ground, the bouncing caused violent swaying in the cockpit, so we went very slowly.
As we reached the end of the ramp, the bouncing gave way to the smooth feel of the water, as the pontoons lifted the wheels from the bottom. Moving the landing gear lever to the retracted position, I lowered the rudders and waited for the four blue lights to come on to show that all four wheels had retracted into the pontoons and were locked.
The pontoons knifed through the light chop as I steered the plane into the channel running southeast out of Rusty’s canal. The crab trap floats that lined the edges of the channel made a perfect runway into the southeast wind.
Raising the rudders, I advanced the throttle. The engine roared as the Hopper picked up speed. The old bird responded instantly; within seconds we were skimming across Vaca Key Bight. It only took a few hundred yards before I felt the pontoons lift out of the water, and then we were airborne. The right pontoon caught a wave and lifted slower than the other, as sometimes happens in water that’s not perfectly calm. The drag on that pontoon fishtailed the plane slightly as we soared into the sky. I kicked the rudder pedal, and Island Hopper responded quickly, straightening out.
I banked right and made a long sweeping turn to starboard, away from Key Colony Beach. I leveled off at fifteen hundred feet and called on the common traffic advisory frequency that we were clear to the south. Pointing the nose slightly south of west, I started following the Overseas Highway toward the end of the road.
As we flew along the Seven Mile Bridge, Mac seemed to be studying the horizon ahead. I had no idea where exactly he wanted to go, but I figured it wouldn’t be boring.
“Key West up there,” I said, reaching for the mic. I radioed who I was, our position, and intent to Key West air traffic control. “Just letting them know who we are,” I told my passengers, trying to lighten the mood. Charity still hadn’t spoken to Mac. “Don’t need any company from the boys at Truman.”
Mac nodded, and seemed to be searching the horizon beyond Key West.
“If you’ve got numbers,” I said, pointing to one of the few instruments in the plane I knew Mac would be familiar with, “enter them in the GPS and we’ll do a flyover.”
Pulling a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket, Mac entered the coordinates into the unit and hit the Go button. A quick glance told me we were only a few degrees off course and I made an adjustment.
“You want them to see us or not?” I asked, getting the feeling that this was more than just a missing homing device.
“Better do the first pass up high,” he replied. “I’m not sure what this is all about.”
After a moment, Mac picked up a pair of binoculars I keep in the console and trained them on a small island just ahead.
“Right down there in the mangroves,” he said, pointing. “Behind Boca Grande Key.”
/> He brought the binos back up to his eyes and focused, as I saw two boats appear on the far side of the island. I pushed the nose down slightly and banked right, to give Mac a better view. One of the boats looked like a derelict; the other was a big, beamy center-console with four outboards. A drug runner special.
People were moving or being moved from the derelict onto the bigger boat. I’ve been around here a while, and I know human traffickers when I see them.
At three thousand feet, we were well beyond the range of a handgun, but a flash of sunlight caught my eye. My mind registered the reflection as coming from a rifle scope and signaled my muscles to react faster than I could have made the conscious decision, or before I could warn Mac and Charity. As I hauled back hard on the yoke to gain altitude, I heard the first pop. A bullet passing through the aluminum skin of the Hopper makes a distinctive sound, like a single kernel of popcorn exploding.
I stomped on the right pedal, and banked hard, pitching the nose down to gain speed, while giving the shooter the smallest target possible; the tail. A Beaver looks like an ungainly bird: fat, stubby fuselage and long wings like an albatross. But due to those large wings, built for short takeoffs, it can also be pretty damned maneuverable should the need arise.
Two more popping sounds told me I had six more holes to patch, one for each entry and another for each exit. There were no unusual sounds from the engine and the gauges were all in the normal range.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been shot at, nor was it the first time the Hopper had been hit by gunfire. I was going to have to make this up to her.
“Nothing vital,” I said. “But what’s going on down there?”
“I’m not sure,” Mac replied, focusing the binoculars on the boats once more.
The familiar sound of a round being chambered in my rifle caused Mac to look back to where Charity had obviously found it stashed in a fly rod case.
“Are you crazy?” Mac said.
When I looked back, Charity had the rifle at the ready, prepared to jettison the cargo door if we were fired on again. A stern look from me stopped her.
Rising Storm: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 11) Page 6