Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) (4 page)

McDermitt’s mangrove-surrounded little island stood out against the other islands and black sea surrounding it, like a cruise ship floating on the water. The lights were on in all four structures, filling the center of the island with more than enough light, and torches were burning on the four corners, marking the inside edges of the dense vegetation around the perimeter of the island.

“We’ll only be on the ground for a second, Linda,” Charity said over the comm.

Andrew turned around in the copilot’s seat as they descended. “We’ll find him. You have my word.”

Receiving the next location for yet another boat to look at from Kumar, Charity waited until Linda was out the door and clear, then quickly took off again and set a course for intercept. It was another false target, and she was beginning to think they’d never find the right one. She couldn’t believe so many boats were out on the water in the middle of the night.

The director expanded the search area in all directions and announced that there were now six helos from the sheriff’s department, Coast Guard, DEA, and FWC aiding in the search, plus twenty boats from all those agencies. Dozens of civilian boats were also hailing the Coast Guard, saying that they were heading out to join the search as well.

“Civilians?” Andrew asked nobody in particular.

“Jesse’s pretty well thought of around these parts, mate,” Donnie’s voice came over the comm.

Charity remained silent, concentrating on flying and locating the next target. Her mind was also drifting to what lay ahead. DHS had already made a lot of arrangements and gone to considerable expense. When Stockwell had first approached her, she’d thought it over for a full two days before giving him her list of requirements. At the top of that list was to be able to use a sailboat to move around. And not just any sailboat. It would have to be big and heavy enough to take on occasional storms without putting into a port. And it also had to be small enough and rigged so that she could sail single-handed.

That meant a wooden sloop, forty feet or so. The design had to be simple, yet classic, to avoid drawing too much attention. It had to be completely set up with all the modern electronics equipment it could carry and have a number of hiding places built in to carry the things that a person could be arrested for in many countries.

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.