Ruthless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 2) Page 6

  Working quickly so nobody would see—not that there was anyone looking—Napier moved the boat straight to the big hangar adjacent to his house. Old man Whyte had been a flyer many years ago, taking people and small loads from island to island, and adventure fishermen up the Manamo River. He’d owned a small amphibian airplane, which he’d kept in the hangar.

  Once Napier had the boat in place, he unhitched it and began inspecting it closely. Though it was nearly thirty feet in length, he was able to lift the tongue of the trailer and move it around fairly easily, a good testament to its light weight.

  The boat was set up as a center console, with minimal controls. The hull and console were painted flat black. The deck was a lattice-style hardwood, raised above the bilges on either side of the console. It looked sturdy and capable enough.

  Not a true tunnel hull, more like a catamaran, Thurman thought as he peered under the boat from the bow.

  Aft the console, the gunwales flared on the inside, leaving only a few feet of room between them at the transom. On top of each of these wide spots were large lockable hatch covers. He opened one of them and let out another low whistle. Nestled in the confines of the gunwale was a huge V-twin engine. It looked similar to a motorcycle engine, but much larger than any he’d ever seen on a bike. Cooling fins on the cylinder and head told Napier that it was an air-cooled engine. Aft of the hatch cover on both sides were two large air outlets, also painted black.

  “Where the hell does the air come from?” Thurman asked out loud, looking for similar intakes facing forward. Not seeing any, he climbed up into the boat and looked around. Sticking his head down inside the engine compartment, he saw what looked like a six-inch tube going forward, inside the gunwale. Moving forward, he found the intakes. Mounted just aft the bow, up under the gunwale, were two oil coolers, also painted black. Each one had its own large electric fan behind it.

  Going back to the console, he turned the two keys to the on position and heard both fans engage. Reaching a hand out, he felt a good bit of air blowing up out of the engine bay. Closing the hatch, he pushed the button below the first key and the port engine roared to life.

  Noticing a large envelope tucked between the throttles, Napier shut off the engine and opened the flap on the envelope. Inside were the maintenance and operating manuals. He sat down at the helm seat and began reading.

  Before the sun had even tinged the eastern sky, Charity was getting into the same cab that she’d taken to and from the Westin the day before. Upon returning to the marina, she paid for a month of slip rental, telling the man at the marina office that she had an emergency back home and would be flying out.

  The man promised that he’d have someone check her boat daily, to make sure the bilge pumps were working and everything remained in order.

  Charity spent the rest of the day packing everything she thought she’d need into a black nylon backpack, before turning in early to be rested for the next day.

  The cab dropped her off at the commercial shipping pier, where she easily found Key Biscayne. Approaching the gangway, a man wearing a Coast Guard ensign’s bars stood waiting.

  “Abigail Suerto?” he asked, as Charity walked toward him wearing black jeans and a long-sleeved black work shirt.

  “Yes, Ensign,” Charity replied. “I understand Key Biscayne will be taking me to a rendezvous?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young man replied. “And we’re under orders from Homeland Security not to ask you anything. I’m Ensign John Taylor.”

  “Thank you, Ensign Taylor.” Charity wondered what the rest of the crew thought about having an obvious spook on board, especially a woman. “I’ll prefer to be on the bridge, if that’s all right with the captain.”

  “He’s already asked that you join him there, ma’am. Please follow me.”

  The two made their way to the ship’s bridge, where Ensign Taylor introduced Charity to Lieutenant Spears. After shaking her hand, Spears turned to the ensign. “Give the orders to cast off, John.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ensign Taylor replied and began giving orders over the ship’s intercom.

  As Charity watched from the bridge, the crew quickly loosed the ship from the dock. “Take her out, XO,” Spears said to Taylor.

  The executive officer spoke into the loudspeaker microphone, “Underway! Shift colors!”

  Taylor began giving orders to the helmsman as Spears turned to Charity. “Join me for coffee, Miss Suerto?”

  “The Coast Guard is notorious for having good coffee,” Charity replied. “I’d love some.”

  Charity followed Spears down to the ship’s galley. “Cream or sugar?” he asked, pouring a mug.

  “No thanks,” she replied, feeling the ship shudder for a moment and then start moving forward.

  Spears handed her the mug and poured a second one for himself. “I’m under orders not to ask you any questions. But I think we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  Charity studied the man’s face. She knew the Key Biscayne was home ported in Key West, but she’d rarely gone down there.

  No, she thought. I’ve never seen this guy before.

  “It’s possible,” she said. “Have you ever been to Southern California?”

  “No, I can’t say as I have,” Spears replied. “So, what’s a SoCal girl going to Gitmo for?”

  Charity took a slow sip from her coffee as she stared into the man’s eyes. Finally, she placed the mug in the sink, coffee half-finished. “That’s a question you were ordered not to ask,” she said.

  “Look,” Spears began, “this is my boat. I’ve been ordered to sail north from here. Cuba is north from here. And you look more Cuban than Californian. I just want to know what I’m sailing my vessel and crew toward.”

  Charity considered it a moment. Tensions between the US and Cuban governments had been on the rise lately. Perhaps that really was his only concern.

  “Just for the record,” Charity said, looking intently into the man’s eyes, “where I’m going and what I’m doing have nothing to do with Cuba, aside from stopping in Guantanamo Bay for about ten minutes. I just need to be somewhere, faster than my boat can get me there. Nothing more. Even that’s way more than you should know. Both for my benefit and your own.”

  Spears looked at his watch. “We’ll be on station in about an hour. I’d appreciate it if you remained on the bridge.”

  “Fair enough,” Charity said, and followed him back up to the bridge.

  The ship was moving north in the sound at what Charity judged to be about ten knots. She stood quietly with Spears at the back of the bridge area, as the XO expertly guided the helmsman out of the sound.

  “Make your course zero degrees, helm,” Taylor said. “Increase speed to twenty-five knots.”

  “Zero degrees, twenty-five knots,” the petty officer at the helm responded. “Aye aye, sir.”

  The ship shuddered again and began to accelerate, just as the sun was beginning to peek over a cloudless eastern sky.

  “The Key Biscayne is a patrol boat,” Spears explained, as the small ship quickly accelerated. “She doesn’t have a helo-pad like a cutter. When the Navy chopper arrives, they can lower a cable with a basket or horse-collar to take you up. Your choice.”

  “Not a problem,” Charity said. “I’ve gotten off boats in worse ways. The collar is fine.”

  Spears looked over at her, a puzzled look on his face. He was about to say something, when the radio operator turned around. “Incoming voice-comm from the Navy helo, sir.”

  “Put it on speaker,” Spears replied.

  The radioman flipped a switch, then spoke into the mic. “Repeat your last, Frogman.”

  “We’re eighty miles out and closing, Key Biscayne. Understand you have a priority package to be picked up.”

  Spears stepped up beside the radioman and picked up the microphone. “Frogman, this is Key Biscayne Six Actual. We are on route and on time. A horse-collar will be fine for the package.”

  “Roger that, Key Biscayne.
See you shortly.”

  Spears turned to Taylor and said, “John, take our guest to the fantail and get her ready.”

  “Aye, sir,” he replied and turned to Charity. “Follow me, please, Miss Suerto.”

  Taylor led the way down to the deck and back to the stern of the ship. The seas were calm, just an occasional roller from the east that caused the deck to tilt side-to-side as they passed under.

  Charity removed her backpack and placed it on the deck. From one of the pockets, she removed a black ball cap with DHS printed across the front in large white letters. She quickly twirled her hair up into a small bun, fixing it in place with a single bobby pin. She pulled the hat on tight and checked the pack to make sure the pockets were all secured, then removed a six-foot-long tether from a zippered pouch between the straps.

  The sound of the approaching chopper could be heard above the wind. Charity scanned the sky, hooking the tether firmly around her waist, just above her belt.

  Taylor pointed slightly to starboard. “There it is.”

  Within minutes, the helicopter circled and came up from the stern. A door on the side opened and someone reached out to hook a thick yellow collar to the winch cable.

  “I appreciate the lift, John,” Charity said. “Tell the skipper I said thanks for the coffee.”

  Taylor extended his hand. “Best of luck, Miss Suerto.”

  Charity shook his hand, as the wash from the chopper rotors buffeted them. The man at the door lowered the cable, and Taylor let it drop completely until the cable made contact with the steel deck, to discharge any static electricity, before picking up the collar, helping Charity get it fitted snuggly around her back and under both arms. Then he stepped away from her and signaled the chopper to begin hoisting.

  The cable tightened and Charity was lifted from the deck, spinning slowly. The tether of her pack pulled tight as it came off the deck, and the pilot moved the bird out over water. The tether pulled down on her pants slightly, causing her shirt tail to come out. The rotor wash tugged at the tail of her shirt, like a flag on a windy day, exposing her belly and hips.

  Seconds later, the man in the door reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door. Once inside, he pulled her pack up and disconnected the winch cable from her harness.

  “Welcome aboard, ma’am,” he said. Charity saw that he wore seaman chevrons on his flight suit. He pointed toward a pair of forward-facing jump seats, and the two quickly strapped in.

  “Thanks, Seaman,” Charity mouthed over the scream of the engine, as the chopper began to climb and accelerate to the east. The seaman handed her a headset and she put it on, adjusting the boom mic so it barely touched her lips.

  “We’ll arrive at Gitmo in about an hour, ma’am,” a voice said. “I’m Lieutenant Perry Bradshaw, my co-pilot is Lieutenant Milt Percy. That’s Seaman Wayne Chaffey, you already met.”

  “I’m Special Agent Suerto,” Charity said. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Like I said, it’ll be about an hour, so relax as best you can. I personally did a preflight inspection on your bird, an hour before we left. She had a leak in one of the turbine’s oil lines. It wasn’t much, more of a weep than a leak. Wayne took care of it.”

  Charity smiled at the young man seated next to her. “Thank you, Wayne. You’re also a turbine mechanic?”

  “Budget cuts, ma’am,” he replied with a wink. “A lot of us at Gitmo have more than one specialty. That’s some chopper you have. If I didn’t know better, I’d never have guessed it wasn’t converted to a civilian aircraft.”

  Paddling through the darkness was nothing new for Vicente. As a nibora of but six years, he’d helped his father build his own bongo. In his adolescence, he’d been on many hunting parties, traveling in his own boat with the older men.

  The bright stars in the sky illuminated the Manamo and guided him, his boat slipping silently through the water. Along the banks, Vicente could hear the night sounds of the jungle. The river and forest were both dangerous places, especially at night.

  In the water, the caribe waited. He’d learned in his younger days that the caribe was not only the largest of the many piranha species but, pound for pound, had the most powerful bite of any animal in the world. Even before he left the jungle, he’d known their danger.

  In addition to the piranha, large snakes and crocodiles were also common in the water. There were eels that could shock a small child into paralysis, and even large sharks were sometimes known to come far up the freshwater river in search of food. Vicente had learned of these sharks while at sea, as well. They were called bull sharks, one of the most aggressive sharks in the world.

  At the water’s edge was where the anaconda, caiman, and crocodile lay in wait for unwary river visitors. Further into the jungle, there were poisonous snakes, frogs, spiders, centipedes, even ants. But it was the jaguar that was most dangerous. A single swipe from one of the great cat’s paws could eviscerate a grown man, and its bite could crush a man’s skull.

  When Vicente arrived at the spit that marked the boundary between his and Miguel’s properties, he turned into the shallow cove, avoiding the spot where his other boat lay broken on the bottom. There were a number of other canoes of various shapes and sizes pulled up onto the bank, and a young man stood waiting.

  “The elders are all here, Buyei,” the nibora said, holding Vicente’s boat, so he could step out.

  Without another word, the young man pulled the canoe up onto the bank, as Vicente started up the path toward his house. The elders from the villages upriver were an eclectic group. Many had taken to dressing in clothes from America, some embracing the new ways, like a cult. All of them were old men, by jungle standards—some in their fifties and sixties—but most were comparatively younger men, still old in the ways of the jungle.

  Vicente’s cook fire was going as he approached. Miguel and another younger man rose and came toward him. “We feared you would never return from the itoto village,” Miguel said.

  “Did I not say that I would?”

  “Yes, Buyei,” Miguel replied. “But they are evil people. I was worried.”

  “No need, my friend,” Vicente said, as they reached the fire.

  The old man walked around the circle of men sitting at the fire, laying his hand lightly on the shoulder of each of them, before taking the position of honor at the top of the circle.

  Looking around the fire, Vicente made eye contact with each of the elders. These men represented numerous tribal communities all up and down the river. They were mostly from the Ye’kuana, Warao, and Yanomamo people, but several smaller sects were also represented.

  “We will smoke first,” Vicente said, pulling his little pack closer to him.

  “What happened?” one of the younger men impatiently asked the old shaman. “Did you speak to the babo?”

  Seated next to Vicente, Guyan Montenegro fixed the younger man with a cold hard stare. “The buyei said we will smoke first,” the older man cautioned. “Not all of our ways are to be corrupted by the outsiders.”

  Vicente withdrew his pipe and placed it across his bare knees. Opening the small pouch, he filled the bowl of the pipe with the dried and crushed yopo seed. Lighting it with a twig from the fire, Vicente drew deeply, then washed the smoke from the bowl back across his head and passed it to his left.

  As the pipe went around the small group gathered around the fire, Vicente watched each one practice the ancient ritual. When Guyan finally returned the pipe to Vicente, he again placed it across his knees and looked around the fire at each man.

  “When our cassava are harvested,” Vicente began, “Miguel and I will plant the coca seed.”

  Each man’s face turned slowly toward the fire. Those that were farmers had been cowed by the itoto and were already growing the valuable cash crop. Those that had once done other jobs now worked for the babo in one way or another. Learning that even the old shaman’s magic was powerless against the interlopers was tragic news. They had all hoped
that Vicente and Miguel holding out might turn the tide.

  The white people had been here since before most of the elders had been born, but the people of the forest had been here for all time. The whites had mostly kept to themselves on the great island. Their only interaction with the forest people for two generations had been their mining operations in the mountains—and, before that, cutting the timber.

  “But the coca we grow will never be harvested,” Vicente added. “The days of the itoto grow few.”

  Guyan was the first to speak. “How can we fight them?”

  Again, all eyes were back on Vicente. “We will not fight them. Not yet, anyway. I have told Miguel about a visit I had here yesterday. The Forest Mother has had enough of the itoto’s ways. She sent a spirit to me, here to this very place. The spirit appeared in all ways as if she were one of the people, except she was much taller than even the tallest man. I sense that she is a great warrior spirit of some kind, but it was not clear. Her hair is long and hangs over her face. Behind the hair, her eyes flash with a white light. I knew without knowing that she had been sent by the Mother of the Forest, and would seek justice for the people.”

  Vicente paused and ceremoniously loaded the pipe’s bowl again. Before continuing, he lit it and once again passed it to the left. “This warrior spirit conveyed to me that we should do what the itoto tell us. When the time is right, the spirit will banish these outsiders to the netherworld, once and for all time.”

  Guyan again handed the pipe to Vicente. The yopo seed was beginning to take effect. Each man’s face had lost the edge it had had when Vicente arrived. Guyan looked up at the smoke climbing into the dark sky. Sparks from the fire meandered up to become stars in the velvety blackness.

  Still looking up, Guyan asked, “Did this spirit have a name? We should each offer thanks in our own way.”

  “Yes,” Vicente replied. Guyan looked at his old friend and spiritual leader of the many tribes and clans. Vicente returned his gaze. “The spirit is called the dancer of the wind.”