My heart settled back to its normal pace. As I climbed the steps up from the beach back to the restaurant, I saw a brute of man in black jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, sporting a beautiful woman on each of his tattooed arms. I spotted the orange mini skirt and white sparkly midriff just as they passed Ray at the table.
Ray’s eyes perked up as he looked over his three empty mojito glasses and smiled. The girl with the orange mini-skirt was looking at him, and I saw Ray’s mouth move. I read his lips: “Hi, beautiful.”
The brute stopped in his tracks, swung the girls to the side, and descended on Ray. I hurried in their direction. Great, Ray, flirt with an escort accompanying a guy who looks like he plays linebacker for the Miami Dolphins. I saw the man reach out and take Ray’s hand as if introducing himself, but Ray’s face immediately twisted into an expression of agony and he fell to his knees. The brute was squeezing his hand like a nutcracker.
“Excuse me,” I said as I ran up. “Can I help you?”
The man looked over his shoulder. Reflective blue sunglasses covered his eyes, but the sneer on his mouth was unmistakable.
“Hi, sport,” he said. “Friend of yours?” He nodded toward Ray, still on his knees.
“You mind letting him go?” I said.
“He called me ‘beautiful,’ the man said. “Least, I assume he was talking to me, ‘cause if he was talking to one of my lady friends, I’d have to kick his ass.”
Everybody heard him, because nobody else was talking in the restaurant. The girls that had been with him had vanished. Waiters scurried behind the scenes and nodded in our direction. None of this was lost on the brute who finally released Ray’s hand and turned his attention to me.
“You boys spoiled my night.” He spread his arms wide. “The bitches left—so I didn’t get any dinner, I don’t get any pussy. Now what the fuck we going to do about that?”
Ray slid lower under the table, clutching his right hand and watching me. The man was around my height at 6’3” but outweighed me significantly. He looked stone sober and ready to eat nails. Not a combination I wanted to challenge, or attention I could afford to attract. I couldn’t clear my name, find Truck, or placate Booth, much less get to Gutierrez’s sunken ship, if I was in jail or the hospital.
“We’re on our way out, friend,” I said. “Sorry for the confusion. I’ll tell our waiter to put your dinner on my card.”
He stared at me as I pulled Ray up by his left hand and we skirted our way around him. I avoided eye contact but he was grinning as we maneuvered past. Some guys live for confrontation, some love the fight, and some just love making other men buckle. He might have had all those going, but I didn’t care, I just wanted to get the hell out of here. He was too big, and we had more important things to do.
My heart rate finally settled when we locked the door on our room. If Booth had watched the GPS that closely, he’d probably do the same with the credit card. I could imagine him cussing up a storm when informed of our night’s tab. I fell asleep in the palace suite with a smile on my face.
13
At dawn we were back at the airport and on our way to board Betty when Ray blew a wolf whistle behind me. He’d stopped next to a glistening private jet strapped down next to Betty. I had been too absorbed in planning the day to notice it.
“You walked right past this baby,” he said. “Gulfstream G-IV. My dream plane.”
The clean white fuselage had a pink glow in the early dawn light. e-Antiquity had once had a G-IV at our disposal through Net Jets, and I could picture it, from the cockpit to the gold-plated head, burled wood, and calfskin seats. Probably belonged to some high roller still bellied up to the craps table.
“Let’s go, Ray. Night time’s for dreaming and daytime’s for scheming.”
“What a beauty.” His voice was a near whisper.
I loaded my gear while Ray spoke with the attendant, who came to ask if we needed fuel, drinks, or breakfast to go. I climbed into the left seat and just as I finished my pre-flight, Ray squeezed in past me.
“The gas jockey says it belongs to some guy who looks like a rap star,” he said. “Can’t believe I spent all those years at Embry Riddle when all I needed was a boom box, a shaved head, and a bunch of tattoos.”
“Maybe his rapper name is Sado Masochist,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
I nodded toward the plane. A bold “SM” was emblazoned on its tail. “Forget the G-IV, Ray. Time to look for Truck.”
A few minutes later we were over the Abacos, and we took turns at Betty’s helm throughout the day. We monitored radio traffic, checked the news, and once when Ray napped, I checked Booth’s cell phone and saw he’d called me a dozen times. There were messages, but I didn’t know the pass code. I did, however, read his text message:
“NO MORE CASINOS OR FANCY DINNERS OR THE CARD WILL BE CANCELLED WITH YOU STRANDED ON SOME GOD FORSAKEN ROCK IN THE OCEAN. CALL ME BACK NOW!!”
Booth’s text was the high point of my day, but when darkness approached and Ray suggested we try our luck in Paradise Island, I broke the news that my client wasn’t too happy with our expenditures last night. So we landed at San Andros airport on Andros Island, where we again replenished Betty’s fuel tanks. This time we ate fish sandwiches and drank a few Kaliks at the airport bar before we camped out inside Betty’s cramped fuselage.
“Spottswell’s not going to be happy with me, thank you very much,” Ray said.
“Poor Bobby Spottswell, stuck in Key West for Fantasy Fest. I feel so bad for him.”
We burst into laughter.
THERE’D BEEN NO NEWS about the Sea Lion, and a few calls to Key West, including Lenny, Curro, and Donny Pogue, revealed no breaks in the case back home, either. I’d made a fortune at e-Antiquity listening to my gut instincts and following my intuition. Whether it came down to whom to trust, which direction to go, which lead to follow, or where to dig a hole, the success of those decisions had made our company a household name. I’d stopped listening to my inner voice when my world imploded and I lost everything overnight. That voice screamed at me now, and it said we were wasting our time in the Bahamas.
I fell asleep to that thought and awoke to an epiphany. While Ray still slept I slipped inside the FBO and ran some quick calculations, checked weather, and filed a flight plan for a new destination. Ray ambled in and pointed toward the small restaurant. His eyes were barely open and his hair looked like an asterisk.
I joined him at the counter. “Sleep well?” I said.
“Coffee,” Ray said. “Egg sandwich.”
The waiter looked at me and I held up two fingers.
“You see my favorite plane out there?” Ray said.
I thought for a moment. “The Sado Masochist? Sure you weren’t dreaming?”
“Nope, she’s out there tied down at the end of the line.”
That struck me as odd. Private jets were common on Nassau, but Andros? It might be the biggest Bahamian island, but there’s not much action aside from bonefishing. I craned to check out the window, and sure enough, I spotted the hulk of the G-IV behind an old Mooney.
The microwave beeped and the waiter dropped two steaming sandwiches in front of us, which we proceeded to wolf down. I asked Ray to buy a few bottles of water and munchies from the vending machine down the hall while I paid the bill. I knew he wouldn’t appreciate my new plan, so I was going to wait until we were airborne to mention it.
Ray walked back in with his arms full—what the hell?
A huge man followed him. Not just any huge man, but the brute from the restaurant on Nassau. Shaved head, blue-mirrored sunglasses, tight black t-shirt stretched taut by what had to be steroid-nourished muscles adorned with exotic tattoos. As they approached, the man pushed past Ray and up to me.
“Buck Reilly, right?” He didn’t extend his hand—for which I was grateful, considering how he’d brought Ray to his knees last time.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” I s
aid.
“Call me Gunner.” He pushed his sunglasses up on his head. “That’s your piece-a-shit Widgeon out there, right? We both came outta Key West, and we’re both after the same target.”
Target? “You’re the G-IV?”
He bared small, square teeth in a smile or a sneer, I wasn’t sure which.
“Sweet, ain’t she? Outfitted with the best tracking and communications gear money can buy. I can monitor the Coast Guard—hell, I can hear the Key West police order doughnuts.”
“So that night at the restaurant was … what?”
“A test. I wanted to see what you boys were made of.” He smiled. “You did all right. But this one?” He nodded toward Ray. “Poontang blindness, which makes me wary of him for a partner.”
Partner?
“That G-IV’s too big to fly single-handed. You have a co-pilot?” I asked.
“You looking for a job? Sorry, I got a pilot and a co-pilot.”
“Listen … Gunner, was it? Sure, we’re out of Key West, but I don’t know what target you’re talking about, unless you’re here for bonefish like we are.”
He stared at me, eyes cold.
“Find any bonefish on Nassau at the casino? Or while you were flying a search pattern around the Abacos yesterday, with me tracking you five miles high like a fucking AWAACS?”
Ray’s eyes were round as sand dollars.
“Go start the plane, Ray,” I said.
As Ray hurried from the restaurant he dropped one of the water bottles but didn’t stop to pick it up.
“We’re both after the Sea Lion and the treasure on board,” Gunner said. “Difference is, I’m not butt buddies with one of the thieves.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t waste my time, Reilly. I came to make you a deal. You lead me to the Sea Lion, I retrieve the treasure, and everyone’s happy.”
“Why would that make everyone happy?”
“‘Cause the opposite of happy is unhappy. Trust me when I tell you that unhappy would really suck.”
Wheels spun in my head. This was just like the days when other, more ruthless men were after the same archeological finds as e-Antiquity. I searched my memory. Could Gunner have been—
“You still with me, Reilly?”
“Just trying to remember if we’d met before, when I ran—
“e-Antiquity? Sorry, friend. When you were off making a fortune, then pissing it away, I was at the sharp end of a stick in garden spots like Yemen, Mogadishu, Kuwait, Afghanistan.”
There were a lot of years between the conflicts he was alluding to, yet he didn’t have the bearing of a man who’d spent that much time in …
“Military?”
The square teeth reappeared.
“Too many rules that cramped my style,” he said.
Mercenary? Could he be another of Booth’s private operatives? Didn’t he say I wasn’t his only asset? I swallowed, hard. The sound of Betty’s twin engines starting up caused a hum in the restaurant.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re on our way back to Key West this morning.”
“Giving up so soon?” He stared at me, expressionless. “Two days on the trail and that’s it? No wonder you went broke. And not much of a friend to Clarence Lewis—if he’s innocent, that is. Me? I don’t give a shit. When I find that old sailboat they won’t know what hit ‘em.” He smiled. “I’m a take action and ask questions later kind of guy.”
“What are you, some kind of bounty hunter?”
The smell of rank coffee washed over me when he laughed.
“You watch too much TV. Technically I’ve been hired by an interested party to find some stolen goods, but with millions of dollars of treasure on that boat, I may forget who I’m working for.”
I slid my change off the counter. “Good luck with all that, Hummer.”
I walked past him and felt his hand grab my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.
“It’s Gunner, and don’t you forget it.”
I jerked my shoulder out of his grasp. My body felt numb as I approached Betty. Would Gunner be able to find the flight plan I’d just filed? Did he really have the gear to track us, no matter where we went? Who was the ‘interested party’ that hired him? Would he kill Truck if he found the Sea Lion first? Had Ray pissed his pants?
It was going to be an interesting day.
14
Gunner would follow us if he believed we could lead him to the Sea Lion, so I initiated what evasive actions I could.
Good thing Ray missed most of Gunner’s comments or I’d have a mutiny on my hands. I explained he was hired by someone to search for stolen goods, whether it was the Atocha treasure or the Sea Lion, but said he seemed more interested in making some fast cash. I was impressed—and worried—at the way he’d manipulated us last night at the restaurant, and glad I kept things under control. I might not have that luxury if he showed up again.
“How’s he afford that G-IV?”
Good question. Planes like that cost $15,000 to $20,000 per day, easy. Could Gunner own it? Or did his client provide it? Had to be the latter, but whom? Booth couldn’t provide that kind of support, could he? Hell, all I got was a credit card and cell phone. That reminded me …
“You bring your cell phone?” I asked.
Ray reached down into his flight bag and pulled it out. “Yep. Never use it much but never leave home without it, either.”
“Good. Save this number, will you?” I handed him the phone, and once he stored the one number I slid open my side hatch window and dropped Booth’s phone into the sea a mile and a half below us.
“Hey, what’d you do that for? What about your client?”
“I don’t like being so accessible.”
“But that was a nice phone.” Ray’s expression made it clear he thought I was nuts. He’d be certain of it before long.
I guided our flight path down the Keys. Ray happily recited the names of the islands he recognized and guessed at a few others. I felt bad since he thought we were headed home, but hopefully Gunner would too. As the chain angled west and we didn’t, Ray’s face drooped.
“What’s up, Buck?”
“Something occurred to me this morning, which is why I was in Flight Services before breakfast. Donny Pogue told me the thieves left a note that said: ‘This was never meant to be yours.’”
“So?”
“It was in Spanish.”
“So?”
I hadn’t worked it all out yet, but when Booth told me the note was in Spanish, some pieces started to come together in my head.
“You watched the news much lately, Ray?”
“I moved to Key West to avoid the news. It’s too depressing.”
“Read any papers? New York Times? Washington Post, USA Today?”
“Solares Hill Gazette.”
“There’s a civil war brewing in South America, maybe even a border dispute between Peru and Bolivia.”
“Peru and Bolivia? Who cares?”
“Seems some nationalistic Peruvian rebels have made a claim for reparations against all the nations who stole their raw materials—”
“No, Buck—”
“Including the Spanish, who back in the 1500’s and 1600’s raped the Peruvian silver and gold mines to fund their imperialism throughout Europe and the western hemisphere.”
“Buck, we can’t—”
“The Spaniards carried tons of riches away in galleons, several of which fell to pirates, and several others were lost at sea in storms and hurricanes. Like la Señora de Nuestra de Atocha and the Santa Margarita, both of which sank in September 1620 and were salvaged by Treasure Salvors.”
Ray looked at the compass, which showed a heading toward the southwest.
“Please tell me we’re not going to Peru.”
“No, Ray, I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Bolivia?”
“Nope.”
“Thank God, ‘cause—”
“We’re going t
o Panama,” I said. “The canal to be exact, which if I’m right would be how the rebels would get the Sea Lion to the Pacific and Peru. Now, in the 1600’s, when the Atocha sailed, there was no canal, so the Spaniards had to dismantle the ships and carry them and their cargo in portage over the land that’s now Panama. Then they’d reconstruct the ships and sail out of Porto Bello. Lucky for the rebels, it’s a lot easier now.”
Ray took his headset off and rubbed his eyes, then ran his hands up through his long, dark hair.
“Yeah, lucky for them.”
“By my calculations this morning, if the Sea Lion is making about six knots, the four and a half days she’s been gone will have her just about to the Canal Zone. So we need to hustle our asses down there because I’d much rather meet up with them in the Caribbean than in South America.” I paused but didn’t look at Ray. “When e-Antiquity ran into its … problems, I, ah, may have left a few big clients hanging in Panama. Some other South American countries too.”
“Which other South American countries?
“Pretty much all of ‘em.” My best Cheshire cat smile did nothing to soften Ray’s expression. “We just need to get safely past Cuba, and with one stop for gas we’ll be at the Canal early this afternoon.”
He looked back out the windshield.
“Yeah, because they really love you in Cuba. Right?”
I didn’t answer him. It was a rhetorical question.
15
It took two hours to reach Cozumel, Mexico, where we stopped for fuel. We’d radioed ahead and the truck met us on the tarmac, which saved us from having to clear customs.
Ray’s sour mood darkened when he called his answering machine and learned that Bobby Spottswell had showed up at the airport in Key West yesterday to check on his Baron, only to find it in so many pieces inside the hangar. Bobby wasn’t the kind of guy who cared about Truck Lewis or the Atocha museum’s loss.
I thought of times past here in Cozumel, diving on the reefs, Palancar in particular. From the tarmac I saw tourists come and go, their lives on hold while they took a precious few days off to relax, enjoy the talcum-white beaches, maybe scratch the surface of this Mexican island that had been a fertility destination—utilizing everything from prayers and ceremonies to bloody sacrifices to help women get pregnant—long before it was called Mexico.
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