1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  Rolle was gone.

  I found him lying in a heap on the concrete road. His elbow now oozed as much blood as his nose had in the room.

  “Brilliant plan, Jacko.”

  His head bounced against the concrete as I dragged him by the feet back to the cart. His gaze was affixed on a dingy shack with corroded vehicles peppering its perimeter. The family estate. With an eye on the door, I reloaded him in the cart.

  “No candles in the window, Bubba. One more stunt like that and I’ll run your ass over.”

  With my duffle bag on top of him, we continued down the road. Security was nonexistent at the seaplane ramp, and Betty was majestically aglow in the warm-hued sunrise.

  Okay, old girl, it’s nut-cutting time.

  After seat-belting and taping Rolle into the back starboard passenger seat, I ran a quick circuit around Betty and determined her to be visibly free of candles, fish, and grenades. Back on board, I ducked under the suspended kayak and shimmied through the crowded fuselage. Rolle looked petrified.

  “Get squirrelly, and you’ll make a nice snack for a hammerhead.”

  The engines started clean, but then a loud backfire from the port side nearly sent me through the roof. What happened to the rest of the hundred hours? The RPMs spiked, then leveled off. I wheeled us down the ramp with my attention on the port engine indicators. Betty skipped across the water, hit takeoff speed, and I added flaps. Just as the hull let go of the waves, another backfire jolted us hard to the left.

  The plane veered out of control, and swerved toward an anchored fishing smack and green channel marker. I hit the throttles with a force that threatened to bend their handles. The engine surged, and Betty cleared the boat by inches.

  Goddamn hex!

  Every one of my senses was redlined, and my ass was on the edge of the seat. I banked the Widgeon hard to the right, now fifty-feet over the water, pointed east and climbing fast.

  The hunt was on.

  Rolle’s eyes were wide with terror. A smile bent my lips as I clicked on the microphone, poised to surface from oblivion, back on the offensive. My first call was a Mayday to the Coast Guard. I alerted them to the Carnival’s anticipated course, which earned me the tentative confidence of the female dispatcher. She reluctantly patched me through a series of operators until a groggy voice whispered, “Hello?”

  “Wake up, Killelea, it’s Buck Reilly.”

  “Reilly?”

  “I’m on the Carnival’s ass heading out of Bimini, and have one of their crew in custody. The boat’s making a run for Miami.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Willy’s daughter is still captive on board, and my prisoner tells me they plan to dump her on the crossing. Get your ass out of bed and rally the Cavalry!”

  He gave me a number to call if I found the boat and promised to dispatch a ship out of Miami.

  “There’s a warrant out for your arrest.” he said.

  “This guy’s testimony will prove the conspiracy theories are all bullshit.”

  “And you impersonated a federal agent—”

  I changed frequencies. Nardi must be furious.

  82

  FROM A THOUSAND FEET a broad panorama spread out below us. The sun hung above the water, and altocumulus clouds were lined up in a domino formation along a weather front. I zigzagged Betty across a twenty-degree heading and scanned for boats. A white hull appeared amidst whitecaps, and I pushed Betty’s nose forward, kamikaze-style. Rolle’s eyes were wide.

  With no idea when the Carnival had left, it was impossible to estimate how much water it had covered. The boat ahead grew rapidly in size as the altimeter spun backwards like the one in H.G. Wells’ time machine. When we were at five hundred feet above sea level, I estimated it to be a quarter-mile away. It turned out to be a trawler.

  We climbed again and I continued to work Rolle’s information over in my mind. One thing he said kept coming back. Hector Perez spoke Spanish with the man in Key West. The few facts twisted in my head like a Rubik’s cube: relics, Salvo’s and Sanchez’s statements, the blackmailer’s demands….

  I kept coming up to the same conclusion, and reality hit like a Bruiser Lewis uppercut. The answer had been in front of me all along.

  Relics.

  Betty’s 180-mile-per-hour airspeed covered sixty-miles in twenty minutes. Florida appeared as a black horizontal line in the distance. I had buzzed four boats with no luck, and as the coast grew closer, concern over Shaniqua’s safety consumed my thoughts.

  Could Rolle be lying?

  Another white hull appeared further north, and although it was outside the latitude I’d been searching, I changed course and began another descent. Rolle had become numb to the routine, his initial fear had changed to silent resignation.

  The boat ahead was large and had the lines of a fishing craft. My fingers tightened on the wheel. She was the right size, pointed toward the coast, and running full-out.

  We closed the distance quickly. Our altitude was down to fifty feet, and Betty’s nose was aimed dead at the white boat’s ass. Figures emerged from the shadows. One pointed toward us, no doubt concerned that a lunatic was zeroing in for a colonoscopy.

  My heart bounded into my throat as I saw a pile of wood crates on the deck, and Carnival on the transom above the roiling white water.

  No-Name came into focus, holding a young woman by the arm.

  Shaniqua!

  We blew past them, just twenty feet over their tuna tower. I cut Betty into a sharp bank north, then turned back around in a tight radius. If I stayed on their tail it might disrupt No Name’s plan to throw Shaniqua in, but if not, I’d land and pull her from the water.

  I keyed the microphone to Killelea’s frequency, and as the Coast Guard operator routed me to his cell, I dropped back down behind the Carnival for an intimidation run.

  Shaniqua was nowhere to be seen. No, there! She was wrestling with someone on the captain’s bridge.

  A sudden burst of flame extended up from the tuna tower.

  I caught a flash of No-Name crouched with a machine gun ablaze! My left foot nearly pressed the pedal through the floor to initiate an evasive course south.

  Betty’s engines were redlined as we hurtled at wave height, now perpendicular to the boat. I chanced a look back and didn’t see any blood, but Rolle was frantically struggling against the tape. He pointed his chin to the floor. Sunlight peeked out of several holes through the teak deck.

  We’ve been hit!

  Holes in the floor meant holes through the roof. Each wing held seventy-five gallons of aviation fuel, which if hit would either ignite in a fireball or quickly leak out and leave Betty powerless. Holes at the waterline killed our ability to land on the water.

  I strained to look out the starboard window and then the port. From what I could see, no smoke, fire, or stream of fuel trailed behind us. No-Name’s bullets must have missed the fuel tanks.

  “Reilly, you there?” I jumped at the sound of Killelea’s voice. I’d forgotten all about the call to the Coast Guard.

  “Shaniqua’s struggling with the captain, and we’ve been hit by machine gun fire.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Making sure she’s on board.” I relayed the GPS coordinates and was relieved to hear a Coast Guard interceptor was rapidly approaching.

  “Break off contact before you get yourself killed,” Killelea said.

  “Not until your people show up. Can you conference in another number?”

  After a brief delay, Harry Greenbaum answered his phone. “You’re calling much too early for an explanation of the other day,” he said.

  “Can you do a quick search for me?”

  “Are you in a hole, dear boy?”

  “I’m in my airplane, some assholes are shooting at me, and I’m conferenced to your line via the cell phone of a Coast Guard investigator.”

  “Smashing! What can I do to help?”

  “Check these names and look for connections
to each other and in Cuba: Carnival, San Alejandro and Wilfredo Lam.”

  We circled the Carnival out of firing range while Harry did his thing.

  I heard a click on the line. “Harry, you there?”

  “I have a man at Data Source checking on this Wilfredo Lam. It sounds like a cigar brand.”

  Static from the cell phone hit my ears like an electronic shock. “What are you doing, Killelea?”

  “Driving to my office, you mind?”

  “All right, Buck,” Harry said. “Wilfredo Lam was a Cuban painter who studied briefly at the San Alejandro Art School.”

  “What about Carnival?”

  “According to my source, that was the hard part, but I think this must be it. There’s a painting by another Cuban artist who also studied at San Alejandro, and one of his better known works is called Carnival.”

  “His name?”

  “René Portocarrero.”

  “Bingo, Harry, that’s got to be the answer.”

  “Your story’s getting stranger by the minute. I do look forward to your filling in the blanks.”

  “Yeah, Reilly, what the hell’s this all about?”

  Killelea was speechless upon hearing my theory, but then he promised to find Booth and check it out. Booth’s ambitions might skew his reason, but there was no choice, especially with the Carnival on the run.

  83

  WITH THE THROTTLES PULLED back, I reduced airspeed, kept a wary eye on the fuel gauges, and fretted over the holes in the fuselage. Back at 1,000 feet, I circled high and wide over the Carnival as it continued in a broad splash of white wake toward the coast. Buildings grew rapidly in size, and I searched the horizon for the interceptor.

  I looked back just in time to see Shaniqua jump off the bridge. She made a huge splash and then disappeared.

  I swung Betty on her side as Shaniqua popped up and started waving frantically. I pushed the stick forward, and peered over my shoulder to check the holes in the fuselage. Rolle shook his head wildly as I counted six holes in a line through the floor. Betty spiraled downward, and I kept my eyes on Shaniqua.

  Damn! The Carnival had turned back toward her.

  A flame burst off the tuna tower aimed toward us, leaving me no choice but to veer off again. I screamed another Mayday to the dispatcher and explained that Shaniqua was in the water.

  A long black knife of a boat appeared. It bounced at high speed toward the Carnival. It seemed too small. Was it an escape craft or would it rendezvous to off-load their cargo? I steered Betty toward it and realized it was a cigarette-type boat, hauling ass and jumping waves. My breathing eased at the sight of an American flag and an orange stripe on its hull.

  When Killelea said they’d send an interceptor, he wasn’t kidding. There were four men aboard the vessel, in full battle gear and loaded for bear. My tail numbers were announced by Miami Center, who directed me toward another frequency.

  “So now you’re Clint Eastwood?” Booth’s voice grated.

  “An interceptor’s approaching the Carnival, what are you doing about—”

  “Get your butt back to Key West, pronto.”

  “What about—”

  “The offshore races started this morning. Gutierrez was last seen at Oceanside Marina.”

  “That’s where he keeps his racing boat,” I said.

  “No shit, Sherlock. He hit the water a half-hour ago.”

  Damn!

  “We’ll get him, though. The Coasties have a Cutter equipped with helicopters due south of the island.”

  “Can they catch him?”

  “They’d blow him out of the water except for one slight complication.”

  “I’m in no mood for riddles.”

  “He’s got two people on board. One’s a friend of yours, I think. That hot blond number from the La Concha.”

  My jaw landed on my chest. No!

  A fast glance at the interceptor told me Shaniqua’s fate was in their hands. I turned Betty on a dime, and instantly changed course over the mainland for Key West. The hell with restricted airspace. I had to get home, and fast.

  “You said two. Who’s the other one?”

  “His race navigator, Emilio Garcia, another hostage.”

  “Emilio? Check him out, if he’s a waiter at El Aljibe, he’s no—”

  “Don’t give me orders, Reilly, this is my investigation!”

  I heaved a big sigh. “I’ll be at Key West International in thirty minutes. Have

  someone there to collect the souvenir I brought you from the Bahamas.”

  “You get—”

  I changed frequencies back to my trusty control tower at the southernmost airport. “Come in, Key West, this is Grumman-one-seven-four-one-November, do you read me?”

  “Damn, Buck, thought we’d seen the last of you.”

  “Likewise, Donny. I’m on my way and in a hell of a hurry. The police will be there in a half-hour.”

  “Turning yourself in?”

  “Hell no, dropping off some dirty laundry. Ray Floyd handy?”

  A few moments passed and we were treetop flying over the everglades, no doubt setting off every radar installation in Southern Florida.

  “I’ve been looking for you on television,” Ray Floyd said.

  “Lifestyles of the Formerly Rich and Famous?”

  “America’s Most Wanted.”

  Good old Ray. “Listen, can you to do me a favor?” I astonished him with the news about Manny Gutierrez, and that he and Blue Guayabara Boy had Karen hostage. Their connection still had my head spinning.

  “Damn, son, you do know how to pick ‘em.”

  “Call Lenny for me. Have him meet me at the airport in fifteen minutes. No excuses and no bullshit.”

  “You forming a posse?”

  “You got it, partner.”

  A lone white egret took flight under my wings, thirty feet above its mangrove lair. My heart ached for Karen, and if Gutierrez hurt her, I’d close out his flea market myself. She’d been concerned about his interest in me, and I encouraged her to go aboard his racing boat.

  And now Karen was his human shield, just as Shaniqua had been. If he sanctioned killing missionaries, Karen’s fate would be no different. I had to dump Rolle, pick up Lenny, and get after Gutierrez before he hurt her. My heart was ablaze as we streaked to the southwest. To hell with my B/B ratio.

  Redline

  to

  Ruin

  84

  WEBBED MANGROVE TUFTS SPREAD out below like giant green hippopotami wading in the creamy green water. Intermittent dark clouds hung low over the Keys. I followed the islands toward their end, where uncertainty awaited. Small kitschy enclaves sporting odd names like Islamorada, Ramrod, Big Pine, Sugarloaf, and Saddle Bunch were flashes out my port window. Every one of the thirty minutes it took to reach Key West increased my heart rate.

  As we leveled off on our approach, helicopters hovered above the island like buzzards circling road kill. Channel 4, CNN, Channel 56… Maybe the politicians had embraced the media’s hype, and the pre-emptive doctrine had reached the point of no return.

  Betty’s wheels hit with a definitive thud, and we taxied toward a small group of uniforms at the end of the runway. Once there, I turned Betty around to face downwind. The moment the RPMs dropped, the group rushed toward the plane like a swarm of paparazzi. I left the engines running and climbed into the fuselage where I met eyes with Rolle. His nose was a swollen mess and there was dried blood on his cheeks, but he stared back defiantly.

  “This is your stop.”

  The small hole in the duct tape that covered his mouth restricted his ability to reply, but his eyes said enough. I dragged him to the hatch, where tape still covered the window.

  “Give my regards to Chango.”

  The door lifted and Booth was there with balled fists on his hips. Before he could say a word I thrust Rolle out the hatch like a bag of trash. He landed on the federal agent, who shrieked under his weight, and both collapsed to the ground.


  “Sorry about your invasion,” I said.

  KWPD officers scrambled to grab their prize, and Lenny materialized from behind them. Ray Floyd gave me a nod and trotted around the starboard side of the plane, pulling a roll of duct tape from his pocket as he passed. He quickly put it to good use.

  “You know how to make an entrance, man.” Lenny had to scream to be heard over the roaring props. “Who the hell was that all tied up?”

  “Get in and shut the hatch.”

  Booth struggled to get off the ground. His eyes were fixed on the closing door.

  “That’s your ass, Reilly, don’t you—”

  The snug fit of the hatch spared us the rest of his threats. “Buckle up in back. We’ve got no time to waste.”

  85

  BETTY GAINED MOMENTUM DOWN the runway and Booth kept pace alongside the first thirty-feet, shaking his fists and screaming. We lifted off over the palm trees lining A1A as the wheels pulled into their wells.

  “Damn, boy, you one fucking crazy cracker!” The volume of his voice nearly burst my eardrums. “This shit better not ruin my political career.”

  “Hang on, we’ve got a lot of water to cover and damn little time.”

  “Where the hell we going?”

  “Rat hunting.” I switched frequencies back to the Coast Guard and asked the operator to forward me to Killelea’s cell.

  “Who the hell’s that?” Lenny asked.

  “The plumber that’s going to clear Booth’s shit out of my life.”

  The faint ring in my headset was interrupted by Lenny’s voice. “What’s with the duct tape on the windows?”

  “Killelea here.”

  “I dumped Rolle in Key West. Where’s Gutierrez?”

  “Headed straight for Cuban waters.”

  Just what I was afraid of. “How far out is he?”

  “Gutierrez, say what?” Lenny said.

  “About twenty-five miles from the Cuban fourteen-mile limit, doing eighty miles an hour and ignoring the Coast Guard’s hail.”