Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Stockwell had simply nodded and taken notes. A week later, he’d contacted her again and told her that the DEA had acquired a forty-five-foot cutter-rigged sloop, designed by John Alden and built in a small shipyard in Wiscasset, Maine, in 1932. It had just finished being completely refitted in Miami.

  The search for McDermitt continued, Charity locating and discounting seven more surface craft. The chopper’s fuel tanks were nearly into reserves. Homestead was only a little further away than the airport in Marathon, as they were now searching the area north of Islamorada.

  With less than an hour until daylight, Charity radioed that they were returning to Marathon to refuel. She wanted to be sure that when dawn broke, her tanks were full. The search could progress much faster once it was light, as the choppers could identify boat shapes and colors from a distance and not have to fly right up on them with spotlights.

  Once they were on the ground, Andrew ran quickly to the general aviation building to get them some food while the tanker refueled the helo. She walked around to the other side of the chopper, where Donnie stood stretching.

  “This don’t look so good, love,” he said as she came around the nose of the helicopter, drinking the last of the water from her bottle. “It’s been eight hours now, and from the way it sounds, less than half the boats within range have been eliminated.”

  “It’ll go faster once the sun comes up,” Charity said.

  “Jesse’s a resourceful bloke. For all we know, the fellas that grabbed him are all dead now, their boat drifting aimlessly, and he’s swimming back.”

  Charity only nodded. Looking around the airport, she was just able to make out the palm trees on the far side of the field now, as the first light of a new day approached.

  Andrew came out of the terminal, carrying a box. “Water, energy drinks, and energy bars,” he said, as he neared them. “Nothing here but vending machines.”

  Accepting a small energy drink, Charity drained most of it quickly, shaking her head and smacking her lips, from the sugary rush. Andrew put the box on the deck inside the back door of the bird and passed out energy bars and candy bars.

  Charity finished a health food bar and crammed the wrapper in her pocket. “Let’s get ready to get back up there. It’ll be light enough to see the boats at a distance now.”

  The three of them strapped in, and Charity switched on the radio to contact Ralph Goodman, up in the G-5 with Kumar. Keying the mic, she said, “We’re taking off in just a minute, Ralph. Where to next?”

  “Charity, we found Jesse,” the director’s excited voice came back over her headset.

  Motioning Andrew, she tapped her headset and said, “They found McDermitt!” As Donnie and Andrew put their headsets on, Charity ordered the fuel truck operator to stop and move away—they were taking off immediately.

  The director continued, “He’s near Marco Island and needs help. Get in the air as quickly as possible. Contact Tony and drop your passengers on his boat.”

  Once the fuel truck was clear, Charity started the engine and quickly spooled it up and raised the collective. She didn’t bother with following the rules to fly over the taxiway and runway, but instead pointed the Huey due north, barely skimming the palm trees along the far side of the runway. Listening over the radio, she heard the director order two DEA choppers that were searching out beyond Key West to rendezvous and provide air support to the two boats that would arrive at the coordinates he gave.

  Dropping the two men in the chopper onto a moving boat was something they’d trained to do many times, and it shouldn’t present a problem on the calm sea below. Tony, Art, Paul, and Linda would be on McDermitt’s Cigarette boat, heading straight toward the mainland.

  Realizing that this would be the perfect opportunity for her to disappear gave Charity a sense of unease. She’d come to think of the people in their team as family. McDermitt was a good listener who had let her open up to him in her own time when the two had spent a couple of weeks alone on his big fishing boat, traveling all over the western Caribbean to find the man who had once been their boss.

  Jason Smith had held a grudge against Livingston and McDermitt, blaming them for his being replaced and posted to the Horn of Africa. He’d hired mercenaries to kill them and nearly killed the president at the same time, and later he had been responsible for the bomb that had taken the life of Jared Williams, a Marine that McDermitt had been trying to help. Jared had suffered pretty severe post-traumatic stress over an incident that had been beyond his control in Afghanistan. He and Charity had bonded quickly when they’d first met.

  When she and McDermitt had finally caught up to Smith, Charity had killed him with her bare hands, feeling no more remorse than if she’d squashed a roach.

  Twenty miles north of Marathon, Charity spotted a big, fast-moving boat headed north-northeast on the radar and changed course to follow it.

  In the back of the chopper, Donnie was breaking his rifle down and packing it in its case, preparing for the exchange. They’d made these kinds of transfers from chopper to boat many times, but never at the speed that they were preparing for now. Time was of the essence. The two men seemed confident in their ability, and Charity knew her flying skills were up to the task.

  “I have the Cigarette on radar,” Charity said over the intercom. “ETA is twenty minutes.”

  Bourke replied in his usual calm, deep voice. “If I don’t get the chance to say it later, thanks for getting us on board safely.”

  Looking over at the big man in the copilot’s seat, she only nodded. He was ten years older than she was, and Charity liked his easygoing manner and thought of him as the older brother she never had. He was always the cool head in any situation. During small boat boarding training, he’d been able to ease any anxiety she felt, the way he did now. Knowing that she might never see the man again gave her a feeling of regret and sadness.

  Charity was glad that Tony would be at the helm of the boat, knowing he’d be talking constantly when they came over it, giving a running update on the sea ahead of him and how the boat would be handling.

  Her job would be easy. Match their speed and let Art use hand signals to guide her to the right spot above their boat. Tony’s running narrative would be more for Andrew and Donnie’s benefit, but his calm way would help steady her at the controls.

  Flying low, only a hundred feet off the water, she noted most of the images on her radar scope were headed south, so picking out the Cigarette boat heading north hadn’t been difficult. There was one other boat heading north, about ten miles behind the Cigarette and on the same course, but moving about half the speed of the go-fast boat. A moment later, it came into view a few miles ahead.

  “Is that—” Andrew began to say.

  Charity finished his question. “Jesse’s boat?” The Huey quickly closed on the much slower fishing boat, then flashed past it. “Sure is.”

  “That was his daughter at the helm!” Andrew exclaimed, reaching for the radio.

  Charity touched his arm and stopped him. “What are you going to do? Order her to go back? Something tells me she’s already been told that. Forget it, this thing will be over before she gets there, and she’s not going to listen to reason.” Andrew looked over at her. “You know I’m right, big guy,” she added with a wink.

  Andrew nodded, undid his harness, and climbed past her to the rear of the Huey. They’d be over the boat in just a few more minutes.

  Charity turned on her earwig. All the team carried them and while they only had a five-mile range, they were near that now. “Tony, can you hear me?”

  “Weak and broken,” came his reply, punctuated by static.

  “Five miles out,” she said. “Rate of closure is forty-five knots.”

  “Roger, Charity,” Tony replied, his voice coming through the tiny earpiece much clearer now. “Slowing to seventy knots. Damned sea is flat as glass. Never seen it so calm. We’ll have to get Jesse to bring us all out here tomorrow and catch some fish.”

 
; Charity smiled, knowing that Tony was trying to ease the tension she and the men in back were feeling. That was just his way.

  McDermitt had been taken against his will, but he must have escaped and somehow contacted Stockwell. She’d seen how quickly and violently McDermitt could react when someone crossed him. He wasn’t the kind of man to make threats, intimidate, or mediate. Just swift and calculated action. If he was free, odds were good that whoever had taken him was hurting.

  Pulling back on the cyclic while decreasing the collective, Charity brought the chopper’s nose up slightly, slowing their airspeed as it descended. She looked back at Andrew and nodded.

  The air inside the helo swirled suddenly, and a loud roar could be heard outside her headphones as Andrew opened the cargo door on the port side.

  Being the heavier of the two, Andrew would go first. Charity slowed more and added just a little right pedal, while at the same time pushing the cyclic to the left. The two controls, used opposite, put the bird into angled flight, the nose pointing slightly to the right of their direction of travel.

  Over the headphones, she heard Tony talking calmly to Andrew, but she was concentrating more on Art’s hand signals. He was now standing in front of the passenger seat of the Cigarette, with Linda standing between them and Paul strapped into the port-side rear seat.

  “Over the boat in ten seconds,” she said over the intercom.

  “Roger that, mate,” Donnie replied. He and Andrew unplugged their comm link cables from the flight helmets they’d put on.

  Though she couldn’t see the men behind her, she knew that Andrew would be sitting on the edge of the deck, both feet planted firmly on the skids, and Donnie would be helping to steady him.

  No longer even looking where she was going, Charity followed Art’s signals and could feel the air change as her bird came down into the slipstream of the fast-moving boat. She made fine adjustments to the flight controls with a delicate hand, watching Art and feeling the way lower into the slipstream. Art continued to signal her forward with his left hand, his right hand held up at Andrew, palm out. Art then clenched his left fist, and Charity held the controls steady, flying at seventy knots about five feet above the boat.

  Though she couldn’t see it, she felt the weight of the helo change as Andrew jumped. She instinctively corrected for the difference and heard a grunt over her earwig as he dropped to the deck below.

  The helo, now lighter, had moved just a bit off station, and Charity corrected for it, following Art’s patient signals. A moment later, he again clinched his left fist, and she felt the helo lighten once more. A second later, Art gave her a thumbs-up, and she peeled off, setting a course for Homestead.

  Awad Qureshi woke with a start. Through the tent’s screen window, he could see that it was still dark outside. A noise had disturbed his sleep, but now he heard nothing. Their camp was dark, as fires were only permitted inside the rim of the old volcano’s peak.

  Awad listened intently for a moment but heard nothing but silence. Then came the low, rolling rumble of distant thunder, far off in the distance.

  Pushing a button on his wristwatch, he looked at the illuminated dial and saw that it was still an hour before the sun would be up. Wide awake, he realized it would be pointless to try to go back to sleep. Instead, he sat up, put on his boots and rose from the cot.

  Outside, he saw Karim Majdi sitting alone on a log in front of the half circle of tents. Most of the tents were larger and housed two men. Only he, Majdi, and Hussein had separate tents to themselves.

  Reaching back inside, Awad picked up the small pack, identical to the ones they all carried, and started toward Karim. Clearing his throat to keep from alarming him, Awad approached and then sat down on the log beside the older man. Karim was twenty-eight and had been living in the town of Waco, Texas, for seven years, working as a mechanic. Short and slight of build, with hair just touching his shoulders in the typical American fashion, he was the son of a tribal elder.

  “As-salamu alaykum, Karim,” Awad greeted the man.

  Karim only nodded, taking a drag from a cigarette. Exhaling into the night sky, he said, “The storm woke you?”

  “Yes, do you think it will rain today?” Though Waco was nearly fifteen hundred kilometers to the north, Karim had told him once that the arid mountainous area they were hiding in was similar to that surrounding the Texas city.

  “I don’t believe so,” Karim whispered. “It is far to the east. Out over the ocean, I think. Did Hussein give you the details last night?”

  Though they were supposed to be working together, Awad knew that Hussein wouldn’t divulge everything to everyone and thought that Karim might be trying to trick him into saying something he shouldn’t.

  “Have you been to San Antonio?” Awad asked quietly, as if making conversation.

  Karim nodded. “Many times. I have even been there for their military festival and have ridden on the boats that will be our target.”

  “What is it like? Will there be many people there?”

  “Hundreds,” Karim replied. “Perhaps thousands. Hussein has chosen a good target. The infidels will be there with their families, reveling in their debauchery. It is unlikely that anyone in the crowd will be armed. It will be glorious.”

  Awad considered this. He’d hoped the mission would be against the military or law enforcement. He’d only been in America a short time, but could already see how he could easily adopt the Western lifestyle. Karim had lived among them for seven years, yet still held fast to his ideology.

  “Yes,” Awad finally agreed. “A glorious triumph for Allah.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” Karim said quietly, but with great conviction.

  Changing the subject, Awad asked, “What are the plans for today?”

  “More shooting practice,” Karim replied. “The weapons we are using are not very accurate, but they have great capacity and are small enough to easily conceal. We must become more proficient with their use to be effective.”

  Just then, a movement caused them both to turn. Stepping out of one of the tents, the man who had been doing the cooking for the group started toward them. He only nodded as he passed and headed up the trail to the crater, carrying his pack over his shoulder. If all was clear, he’d light the cook fire to prepare breakfast for the men.

  “I think I will go and help,” Awad said as he stood up.

  Karim grinned. “You are going only to be first in line for the food.”

  Shrugging, Awad nodded and started up the path, following the cook. The truth was, since Hussein’s revelation of the civilian target, he just wasn’t sure about anything any more.

  When he reached the area in the crater where they usually ate, he found the cook there, the fire already going. The spot was surrounded by large boulders, open only on one side, so it was nearly invisible from further down inside the massive basin.

  Fareed Basara saw Awad approaching as he cut up a large piece of meat for the morning stew. He only nodded at the younger man.

  “I thought I might be of assistance,” Awad said.

  Fareed only grunted an acknowledgment as he carefully cut the meat in the near darkness. Fareed was the oldest of the group, two years older than Hussein. He came from a nomadic tribe in the Pamir Mountain range, near Afghanistan’s border with Pakistan and China. Being a nomad, he’d learned from childhood how to cook and prepare food.

  Fareed stopped what he was doing and looked up at the younger man. “What is America like?”

  Awad considered the question a moment. “There are as many different parts to it as there are rocks on Shah Foladi,” he replied, referring to the highest peak in the Hindu Kush range. “Yet with all their differences, they are still all the same.”

  “Do you like it?”

  Again, Awad felt as if he were being tested. “Most of them are a decadent people. Trapped by an overabundance of technology. They have forgotten how to do the simple things, such as you are doing now. They eat in restaurants, both fi
ne and sickening, allowing strangers to prepare and handle their food.”

  Placing a kettle on a hook over the fire, Fareed said, “Will you bring that water container and pour a liter into the pot for me?”

  Awad did as he was bid, bringing one of the many twenty-liter water cans from its hiding place among the rocks. As he poured a small amount into the cauldron, it began to boil furiously, then slowed and finally stopped.

  Fareed waited a moment, allowing the water to begin bubbling once more, before sliding the meat from a makeshift cutting board into the kettle. From another hiding place, Fareed retrieved a small, sealed container and dumped the whole contents in with the meat. It contained a number of vegetables that Fareed had either bought or collected along the way, along with a few spices he’d purchased in a small Muslim store in Mexico City when he’d first arrived.

  The two men sat down in silence, Fareed occasionally stirring the stew with a long wooden spoon, which he’d carved from a green sapling. After thirty minutes, he lifted the kettle off the fire and placed it on a flat rock, heated by the fire. He did this so the stew could cool enough to be eaten, but not get completely cold.

  Soon, the others began to arrive, each carrying his own bowl in his small canvas pack. Also in the packs were the Russian-made Bizon SMG machine pistols each of them had been given.

  Burrs Strip was an ideal location to keep the Huey, Charity realized upon landing. Located in the outskirts of South Miami Heights, it had a grass airstrip and a small hangar, where engine work was done. The whole field was surrounded by mature avocado trees. DHS had leased a section of the hangar to store the chopper on a long-term basis. Charity left the bird on the ground outside the hangar, knowing that it would be wheeled inside as soon as someone arrived in about an hour.

  From the airstrip, it was only a quarter-mile walk through a quiet residential neighborhood to the safe house, also leased on a long-term basis. Taking only her go-bag, Charity reached the house in minutes. It was a typical South Florida home, stucco walls and red barrel-tile roof, with reflective tinting on the windows to keep out the hot sub-tropical sun.