Randall didn’t hesitate. “Done.” He extended his hand.
Clayton shook. “When do you want to leave?”
“Well, we’re gonna have to take care of the passport. If you can get me photos tomorrow, I can have it ready in a couple of days.
“It’s gotta be at night. We’re gonna have to fly low to avoid radar then land when no one’s around to see us. It’ll take me a day to arrange things. I’ll meet you here the night after tomorrow, say eight o’clock.”
“Deal.” Randall slapped Clayton on the shoulder and got up.
Now it was a quarter past eight and his twenty-five large hadn’t showed up yet. Where was he?
Clayton sipped at his iced tea. He’d read enough to know that you didn’t drink before flying. He heard a disturbance at the front door.
There he was. What the hell? Randall was dressed up like B’wana Bob. Khaki pants, safari shirt, combat boots and Panama hat. Who did he think he was?
“Sorry I’m late. I had a few things to take care of,” Randall said sliding into the booth. “Ready to go?”
“What’s with the Jungle Jim outfit?” Clayton asked.
“Oh, just a little subterfuge. Once I get to the Bahamas, I’m going to be traveling on a British Passport. I thought I should look the part.” He extended his hand to Clayton. “Name’s Geoffrey Bingham, gov.” His grin almost cracked his face wide open.
“You look more like a cartoon character. You got my passport?”
“Here you go, Steve.” Randall flipped the red passport document onto the table. “You’re Steve MacIntosh now. From Liverpool.”
“Cool, let’s saddle up. We’ve got some miles to cover.”
Randal, aka Geoffrey Bingham, loaded his roll-on and carry-on into the trunk of Clayton’s “borrowed” Toyota and they headed north east to Sugarloaf Key.
It was dark when they arrived at the airstrip, just like Clayton planned. They parked off the airport and Clayton reconnoitered on foot. Not a soul on the premises. Clayton went back, retrieved the Toyota and his passenger.
“Let’s see the cash,” Clayton said as he parked next to a Cessna 172.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” Randall said.
“Hey, man, it’s not that I don’t trust you, but we don’t load a thing in the plane until I have the money in my hand.”
Randall sighed. “Okay. No big deal.” He reached in his carry on and dug out an envelope. “It’s all there. You want to count it?”
“Yeah.” Clayton opened the envelope and saw the prettiest sight he’d ever seen in his life, two hundred and fifty hundred dollar bills. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Let’s rock.”
Clayton opened the trunk and dug out his back pack leaving Randall to handle his own luggage.
He’d scoped out the airport already and knew the Cessna had full fuel tanks. He busted the lock on the door and opened the luggage compartment. “Stick your stuff in here.”
He pulled a small mag light from his pocket and began a pre-flight inspection while Randall climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. Clayton completed his pre-flight and got in.
“Now I just gotta get this thing started.” He’d hotwired a bunch of airplanes, boats and cars already, but this was the first time with an audience. His nerves fluttered in his throat as he pulled the wires free.
In a moment, the engine turned over and Clayton taxied to the end of the runway. After a quick run-up, he released the brakes, advanced the throttle and started the roll out.
The red and white bird rolled down the runway and gracefully lifted off. They were on their way. Next stop, the Bahamas.
****
Ted transferred the two canvas bags of groceries to his left hand while he dug in his right pocket for the car keys. The supermarket parking lot was remarkably busy on a Thursday evening.
After a full day of chasing a wayward husband across the Internet, Ted was ready for a quiet night at home. He had some chile verde left over he’d warm up and roll in a flour tortilla with frijoles, sour cream and cheddar cheese to make a burrito. He wanted to start watching the TV series Band of Brothers on Netflix.
“Don’t move,” A voice said behind him. “Try to turn around and I’ll blow your head off.”
Ted felt something hard sticking into the back of his head. He froze.
“Drop your bags on the ground,” the voice said.
Ted complied.
“Now, slowly, one hand at a time, put your hands behind your back.”
Ted did as told. He felt the handcuffs click in place. The man behind him slid a black bag over his head.
Ted felt hands patting him down. He wasn’t armed, there was no reason to be. He was just on his way home from work. The hands found the pack strapped to Ted’s belt and opened it. The man with the gun took his sunglasses out of the pouch then returned them.
Bad mistake, carbón.
“I’m going to lead you to a car. You will get in and sit quietly. Do what I say. I don’t want to get your blood all over my upholstery.”
Ted was led a few feet, then heard a car door open.
“Get in.”
The man pushed on Ted’s head as he slid into the seat. The door closed behind him.
Shit, not again! Ted flashed back to being kidnapped by thugs when Catrina and he were on the Millennium Systems case.
“Hey, dude, you sure you know what you’re doin’? The last time somebody tried to kidnap Teddy, it ended with two bodies on the floor.”
“Shut up.”
The car started and Ted felt it moving. He had no sense of time or direction. They just drove and drove.
“Computer. Start tracking,” Ted said. He felt a slight vibration on his belt.
“What?” the man asked.
“I was just askin’ where we’re goin’.”
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
Finally, the car stopped and the door opened
“Get out.”
He slid to the edge of the seat, turned and put his feet on the ground. Hands pulled him up.
“Okay, walk.” He was shoved forward.
After a few steps, Ted heard a door open. He was shoved again and continued walking. They were obviously inside a building.
“Sit down.”
He felt a chair being shoved against his knees.
“What’s this all about?”
“Shut up.”
He heard footsteps moving around the room, things being moved.
“I told that bitch to back off, to drop the search for Dick Randall, but she wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t listen. Now I have to show her how serious I am. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but you made me do this.”
“Do what?” Ted’s heart rate sped up.
Ted felt his feet being tied to the chair. Then his arms were tied too. He heard the click of the handcuffs being unlocked. His hands were secured with some kind of light rope.
“C’mon, man. I’ve read Fifty Shades of Gray. It wasn’t that good.”
The bag was lifted off of his head.
Ted was in a rustic cabin of some sort, looking towards the kitchen area, against one wall. He could see trees and brush through the four-pane window.
“Nice digs,” Ted said.
On the crude table in front of him were a Jerry can and some sort of homemade pipe bomb. Wires ran from the bomb to an electric alarm clock.
“By the time this goes off, I’ll be long gone” the man said. “Back in Seattle. Establishing an alibi.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t have to do this.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. You made me do it.”
“I’m not makin’ you do anything. We can talk about it.”
Ted heard the door shut.
It got very still. How do I get out of this one?
He heard birds singing outside.
****
James Winston watched as mechanics removed the wings from the red and white Cessna 172 pitched nose down
in the sand. The rhythm of the surf pounded a song in his brain, accented by the call of the gulls.
He closed his eyes and let it sweep over him for a moment. Life was music. Winston heard the songs he was practicing in his head. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.
He’d never been to the Bahamas before. It was gorgeous with long, white sandy beaches and turquoise water lapping gently at the shore. Palm trees waved in the warm wind and the sun beat down overhead.
I guess if you’re going to make your big escape, this isn’t a bad place to do it, he thought.
The trail had gone dead in Indianapolis where he’d spent the better part of a week learning nothing. Car thefts weren’t rare and he followed up each recovered vehicle but nothing led him closer to his quarry.
Then he’d seen the report of an American light plane crashed on the beach in the Bahamas. It screamed “Clayton Johnson-White.” He was on the first plane to Miami then caught a puddle jumper across the Straits.
The Police Commissioner, a large articulate black man had been very helpful.
“You will have every resource of the Royal Bahamas Police Force at your disposal, Mr. Winston,” the Commissioner said in a deep, rumbling voice. “We here in the Bahamas despise lawlessness. We will not tolerate the same kind of hijinks that your fugitive played in the States. But I must caution you not to take the law into your own hands. When you find him, alert us and we will take him into custody. Everything must be by the book. You must go through the proper extradition procedures.”
That worked for Winston who didn’t particularly want to drag the young man back across international borders to a destination a continent away. Once Johnson-White was in custody, his job would be done, his fee collectable. Let the proper authorities worry about getting the kid back.
Then he could return home. He’d been on the road far too long and longed to feel the warm embrace of his wife and to play the piano with his three granddaughters huddled around him, absorbing “Papa’s” music lesson.
“When did you find the plane?” he asked the white uniformed police constable standing next to him.
“It was reported day before last, sah,” the man with shiny black skin replied. “No one reported the crash, but this beach is used every day, so it must have come at night.”
He could be anywhere by now. “Has anyone tried to report in to Customs?”
“No, sah.”
“I wouldn’t think so. If it’s Johnson-White, he wants to stay under the radar.”
Winston and the constable began walking back towards the car.
“Speaking of radar,” Winston said. “I checked with Air Traffic Control. They didn’t have any flights coming in night before last, so the plane must have been flying real low. This has smuggler written all over it.”
They reached the white Nissan with the light bar. Winston went to the passenger door.
“No sign of dope though, sah. We had drug sniffing dogs out here. They weren’t smuggling in drugs.”
“No,” Winston said. “He was smuggling in other cargo.” Himself.
Winston popped a Lifesaver in his mouth as they drove off.
Back at the hotel, Winston showered and shaved. A nice meal and a good night’s sleep would make a world of difference. He was getting too old for all of this running around and needed to retire, settle down and work on his music. Maybe write his book.
The idea had come to him decades ago when he was in seminary. Christianity evolved and changed to fit the politics of the times. Look at the Spanish Inquisition. Look at the crusades. Look at gay marriages and abortion. Good Christian people were putting aside basic church values to fit modern morays. Well, he wanted to show the world what Christianity had originally been. His book would strip away two millenniums of political falderal and get back to Jesus’ original beliefs.
But it was impossible to rest. After dinner, he made the rounds of every bar in town leaving pictures of Clayton with every bartender. It gratified him to see most of them pin the pictures up behind the bar. A sawbuck here and there always greased the wheels. If Clayton showed up in any of those places they’d give him a call. There was money in it for them if they did.
Chapter 23
That cabrón was no sailor. Ted struggled with the cheap cotton cord restraining his hands. He had flexed his wrists while being tied up, giving him a little bit of wiggle room. These were not professionally tied knots.
Ted looked over at the electric clock on the table but couldn’t tell from where he was what time it was set to go off. The cabrón wanted to get back to Seattle to establish his alibi before it went off.
How long had they been in the car on the way to the cabin? Ted didn’t know but sure wasn’t going to wait around to out.
Chris would never tie a knot this loose. Ted wiggled, struggled and made a little more room every time he flexed. Finally, his hands were free. But it didn’t help much. His arms were still tied to the chair, as were his legs.
He felt the clock ticking away in his head.
He wiggled around on the chair. It felt wobbly. There were three ancient ladder-back wooden chairs around the kitchen table that looked old and frail. That gave him an idea.
He rolled to one side until the chair went over then wiggled his way across the room until he got to the wall and lunged towards it.
No good. There wasn’t enough leverage. Ted rolled onto his belly, with the chair behind him and inched as close to the wall as he could. He rolled into the wall and heard a slight crunching sound. He rolled back and forth, hitting the chair against the wall. Each time, it sounded a little worse.
Finally, after several tries, he was gratified when one of the legs broke free but kept rolling into the wall. Another leg broke then a front leg. Now he had one of his legs free and pushed himself into the wall again. The chair shattered.
Ted stood and fought his way clear of the ropes.
Now, where was he? It really didn’t matter. The first thing was to get away from the bomb.
He slipped out the front door into a wooded area. No other houses or buildings were anywhere in sight. Tall firs and cedars filled his vista, with a heavy growth of underbrush.
From the outside, the cabin looked abandoned. The worn siding was gray and splitting, the roof looked like it couldn’t hold out a sprinkle.
Ted took the sunglasses from his case. “Computer, phone.”
“I’m sorry,” a female voice said inside his head. “There is no reception.”
“Computer. Log onto satellite.”
“Acquiring satellites,” the voice said.
Ted saw a screen with a picture of the globe floating in front of his eyes. There were several circles around the globe. One by one, a yellow light glowed on each circle. When there were three yellow lights, the voice said, “Connected to satellites.”
“Computer, get coordinates.” Ted walked further from the cabin, just in case.
Latitude and longitude coordinates appeared at the left side of his field of vision.
“Computer, load satellite phone.”
There was a whirring in his head.
He continued down the driveway to an overlook. He marveled at the view. Below him, crystal blue water danced in the sun and on the other side, an emerald green island.
A telephone keypad floated in front of his eyes.
“Call 9-1-1,” Ted said.
He heard the beep-beep-beep of the phone connecting. Then it rang.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“Hi. My name is Ted Higuera. I was kidnapped and left in an old cabin. There is a bomb in the cabin.”
“What is your location sir?”
“I’m at forty-eight degrees, thirteen point thirty-eight minutes north latitude, one hundred twenty-two degrees thirty-one point forty-five degrees west longitude,” Ted said.
“Got it,” the dispatcher said. “Are you in the cabin?”
“No. I’m outside. Should I try to unplug the bomb?�
�
“No, sir. Stay away. Get at least a hundred yards from the cabin. Find shelter. I’m dispatching the bomb squad. Let them dismantle the bomb.”
****
“Where are you, Junior?” Catrina asked into the phone.
“I’m on Camano Island. An old cabin. The deputy says it belongs to a Mister Dick Randall.”
“Shit.” Catrina took a breath. “Sounds like a close call. Have they disarmed the bomb?” She leaned back in her swivel chair.
“Yeah. It was really cool. They took it off by itself in a clearing and blew it up.”
“Okay. Do you need a ride home?”
“No. Maria’s on her way to pick me up. I’ll be back sometime tonight.”
Catrina smiled to herself. “Okay. Watch your back. Are you packing? Someone is playing rough.”
“No. My gun’s in the office. I didn’t think I needed it to go home and watch movies.”
“Ted, this is serious. I suggest that you stop by and get it on the way home.”
Catrina replaced the phone on its cradle. She looked up at the stained ceiling of her office.
Crap. Now what? Someone really didn’t want them finding out what happened to Dick Randall. Or was it that they didn’t want them finding Dick Randall alive? If they were desperate enough to try to blow Ted up, maybe they had something to do with Dick’s disappearance. Maybe they didn’t want Catrina to figure out that they did it.
Who wanted Randall out of the way? She went through the list of suspects again.
Karen. There was a large insurance policy. But Karen had hired her to find out what happened to Randall, and Karen was missing. But if she did it, maybe she hired Catrina to throw the police off the scent.
Then there was Dick Junior. Did he know about the new will? Junior might have snuffed his dad before Randall could leave everything to Karen.
Who else? Caglione was unlikely. His boys were out looking for Randall even now.
His sister or brother? What would they have to gain?
While Catrina was lost in thought, the phone on her desk rang. She absentmindedly picked it up.
Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4 Page 23