Salty Sky (36 page)

DESPITE THE COOL
shower, Francisco’s forehead beaded with sweat as he dressed. The hard morning workout had cleared his mind.

Francisco decided to vacate the hotel this morning. If they failed today—he would not fail today—he would pay for Mr. Coleman’s removal. Torturing him would yield twenty-year-old information. Given the opportunity, he would enjoy the process of extracting that information. But there were enough ghosts to chase. And now, today, he didn’t think he’d have the opportunity. His best outcome was reduced to a kill that wouldn’t alert the authorities. Being there personally enhanced his mythology but was not essential. He did yearn for the rush of excitement of vengeance extracted, the intoxication of vindicating a brother’s death, a proxy kill to represent all the
norteamericano
soldiers who coordinated the hunt and murder of El Capo. This kill would be personally satisfying, given the past, but was mostly a bedside note left for his future pursuers that their success might mean their demise.

Last night had ended in frustration for Francisco. They returned to Coleman’s house and cut the power before entering, but the alarm had a backup.
Woof-woof-woof
. They rapidly searched the small house. With spotlight-mounted guns and night-vision goggles, they moved quickly through the rooms. He was not home, and his boat was gone too. When
they left the house, they waited out the responding officers’ sirens deep in the driveway of the lot where no house was ever built.

Returning to the hotel, he’d had a drink with his men at the bar. They switched to speaking Spanish to convey sharper nuances to their thoughts and ideas. Sleep was fitful as Francisco’s subconscious tried to find solutions to his problems in his dreams. He eventually relented and started his workout early.

While dressing, Francisco reviewed his plan for Mr. Coleman’s death at the airport. Board the chartered plane first. He was confident Coleman would not recognize him, would be ignorant of the danger. While the four men were alone in the cabin, the Cuban would slip a wire over Coleman’s head, strangle him before the plane powered up. Francisco had heard the Cuban was legendary with such work in close quarters, and he looked forward to seeing it. After ending Coleman’s life, they would stuff him in his own plane’s locker closet, deplane, cross the tarmac, board the Gulfstream, and take off for Savannah. If things went poorly, they’d take off for Bogotá. If they went really badly, Caracas. Even with Chávez dead, America had no influence there. If needed, twenty minutes after takeoff they could be over international waters. This was not the type of crime where the United States would scramble fighter jets to retrieve or destroy the perpetrators.

He met Alberto and the Cuban in the hotel’s restaurant. A bowl of fruit and a mug of coffee waited in front of his empty seat. Each man’s travel bag was at his feet. They were properly prepared.

Francisco asked, “Anything to discuss before going to the airport?”

Alberto looked at the Cuban, who turned away, distancing himself from what Alberto was about to say. Undaunted, Alberto continued, “Mr. Escobar, look at these photographs I took from the house last night.”

Alberto handed over several pictures. A tall man with a wife and two young daughters at a sporting event. The tall man in a semicircle with friends, all holding large fish. The tall man and the grown
daughters at a wedding. The tall man on the beach, shirtless, holding a baby under each arm, his grown daughters beside him and their husbands beside them.

“Yes, Alberto, this is Mr. Coleman. We had a picture of his face before we came. What do you want me to know?”

“Mr. Escobar, this
hombre es muy grande
. I think we should use guns.”

Francisco felt a flush of anger color his cheeks. He glanced about to make certain no one overheard and felt safely out of earshot. Alberto looked at him pensively and expectantly. The Cuban had coldly angled his body away from the conversation to keep the stain of cowardice off of himself.

Francisco let the idea rattle. Alberto had served him well, if for far too long. He was mad at himself for not preparing his younger men for this opportunity. Alberto should be enjoying guarding an empty villa at this point in his life.

Francisco disdained the idea of putting a bullet into Coleman’s head from a distance. It was frustrating enough that they would not have time to drag out his death with nicks and slices, and small threats about his children’s futures. Mind games mixed with physical pain—that was what vengeance looked like. Whether the plea was spoken or unspoken, he especially relished the look of recognition in the eyes when death was certain, and a speedy death was all that could be prayed for. Radcliffe had given him this, and he had forgotten how intoxicating it was.

Maybe a gut shot if they had to. Yes, maybe the gut.

“Let us each put on our silencers. We will attempt, as discussed, with the wire first. But, Alberto, you will have your firearm drawn to help quickly if necessary.”

The men nodded agreement. They finished breakfast and left for the ten-minute drive to the municipal airport at eight-fifty—an hour before flight time, in case their plans needed to be adjusted.

32

DUNT-DA-DA-DUNT, DA-DUNT-DA-DA-DUNT, DA-DUNT
da-da-dunt
dun dun da
. Cale turned his phone’s alarm off mid reveille. If he dreamed last night, he didn’t recall.

He slipped out of bed, showered, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. He wore a tucked-in golf shirt and a baseball cap, both with his company’s logo, with sunglasses hanging from Croakies around his neck and his bag hanging off one shoulder. He took the stairs down, because the elevator was too slow for just two flights. Then he stopped at the continental breakfast, ate yogurt, drank orange juice, and decided to grab coffee at the FBO.

Stepping outside and into the cab, he felt anxious giving instructions for two stops—the marina first, then the municipal airport. Would she have changed her mind? The cabbie questioned his airport choice. Yes, he did mean the municipal airport. He should have thanked the cabbie for his diligence instead of being annoyed at the question. Cale took off his wedding ring, unzipped his bag, found an unused pocket in his Dopp kit, secured the ring inside with a Velcro strip, rezipped the bag, stared at the pale strip on his finger, and involuntarily took a deep breath.

Ashley stood in the parking lot with Joe. Joe had a newspaper tucked under the arm in which he held his coffee cup and was waving
his free arm as he spoke. She wore the dress from Saturday night, and Cale still very much approved. At the cab’s approach, Joe and Ashley gave each other a long hug good-bye. They held a close conversation. Cale envisioned Joe’s parting words being something along the lines of Bogart telling Bacall “Give ’em hell, kid.” As they separated, Joe waved at Cale and turned the motion into a thumbs-up. Cale almost shook back a two-handed hang loose before he went conventional and returned the thumbs-up.

One anxiety left Cale as Ashley slid in the back of the cab.

“Good morning.” A quick greeting kiss before he could stop smiling.

Very nice. A flush of warm emotions. Cale worried he might be too distracted to fly safely.

Fifteen minutes later, the cab arrived at the chain-link fence separating the runway from the parking lot. The cabbie stopped, and Cale paid. They got out, walked to the fence, pressed the buzzer, and were buzzed in.

Cale indulged his hobby and scoped out the nearby aircraft. A Gulfstream V with its distinctive windows reflected the rising sun—a beautiful plane. It looked new. Most of the other planes were single-engine props, or what in professional pilot parlance were called
doctor killers
. A few twin-engine turbo props like Cale’s King Air were visible. Two jets besides the Gulfstream were parked on the tarmac. One was a small Brazilian Embraer: four-seater, fully pressurized, a great jet for short runways with steep climbs. Think Eagle-Vail. St. Barts was too short for takeoff, although the landing would be fine. The other jet was a faster, more fuel-efficient four-seat HondaJet. Its unique engine configuration—with the engine over instead of under the wing—might change the industry. The HondaJets were made in North Carolina, which seemed fair if John Deeres were made in Japan.

The small general aviation terminal was empty except for the shift manager who buzzed them in. They walked through the terminal and
headed across the tarmac toward Cale’s craft to drop their bags. When Ashley remarked on it, Cale explained that general aviation terminals outside of major cities (and Lincoln, Nebraska, on fall Saturdays) rarely had more than a handful of people in them at any one time.

Ashley looked puzzled. “Hey, Cale. Where are the security checks?”

“There aren’t any. Saving hassle is what you’re paying for.”

They locked eyes. She was processing but didn’t quite get it yet.

“Ashley, you’re going to love this so much it’s going to ruin your life!”

“But people could bring guns or drugs or llamas—whatever they want—on their trip.”

“Yes.”

Sometimes the simplest answers said it best. Cale loved witnessing the understanding that came into her mind that there were still some freedoms left.

He was spoiled. He only found himself in commercial aircraft terminals when doing Caribbean island hops, where most airports were too small to separate general and commercial aviation entrances. Of course, even while working and going through metal detectors, it was hard to complain in the Caribbean. Inside the United States, the quality-of-life differences in air travel between general, meaning private, and commercial aviation were gargantuan. The price difference was pretty gargantuan too, but you picked your luxuries: Do you want a five-thousand-square-foot house, a new Mercedes, and to fly commercial? Or a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot house, a thirty-year-old Toyota, and to fly private? He knew what he’d choose—or, in this case, chose.

They dropped their bags behind the back-row seat in the plane’s elevated storage compartment, leaving the large lower part of the closet with the hanging rack empty for the clients. There were three men booked on this charter, and they indicated this was a business trip, so Cale wasn’t worried about fitting in golf bags. The plane sat
six in the cabin, plus two in the cockpit. There was plenty of room for three passengers, the newest crew member, Cale, and everybody’s luggage (and there was no fee for a bag over fifty pounds).

They went back into the general aviation terminal to pick up drinks and snacks for the flight. The charter clients requested only sodas, waters, peanuts, pretzels, and M&Ms. The plane’s wet bar was always stocked. The hospitality group would have the provisions box assembled, along with bags of ice ready to load in the built-in cooler.

As they reentered the terminal and headed to the hospitality pick-up in back, the crew from the Gulfstream stood at the coffee bar. The stewardess was assembled in a beauty factory. Now, it was sexist to assume she was the stewardess, but Cale let this small personal imperfection—his, not hers—pass without feeling guilty. The crew spoke Spanish and was joking about the quality of the complimentary coffee.

Cale’s phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. He glanced at his watch. A quarter after seven was a little early for a social call and a little late to cancel a charter. He pulled the phone out. It was a 703 area code but not the number he’d seen before. He guessed who it was and gave Ashley the universal “one minute” sign with his finger and walked ninety degrees away from her to answer.

“This is Cale.” Four hours and forty-five minutes of sleep and as chipper as ever. He was a professional.

“Cale, it’s Sheila.”

“Are you FedExing my old Kevlar vest?”

“Hey, jackass, I’m working on this for you!”

It was meant as a joke but getting yelled at raised his temperature.

“Based on the new disposable number, I’m thinking none too successfully!”

The outburst done, he cooled. Sheila had the ability and desire to help. She might be risking her career with this call.

“Sorry, Sheila. I had my mind on a job. Your call brought me back to reality.”

Actually, his mind was on Ashley, which was a very pleasant mental vacation from what might be a very unpleasant and imminent future. He was
about
to get his mind on his job. But he figured the apology itself was the important part, not the facts of the backstory. Was this ethically equivocating or just conversationally efficient?

She sighed. “Understood. You must be afraid and under a lot of stress.”

She felt bad that her former subordinate was dangling on a line without a hook. She should feel bad, but only in a misplaced maternal way, because it wasn’t her fault. It was the machine’s. As high as she was, she wasn’t high enough to call a press conference to discuss the Escobars that wouldn’t get her labeled as crazy within a half hour if the rest of the machine didn’t want the Escobars discussed.

But she was wrong about how he felt. The mandatory post-work-related-death psychiatrists and psychologists never got it either: It was indecision that troubled him. Once he knew Big Brother wasn’t stepping in and he understood the dynamics of the situation, the decisions were made, and that’s when fear left. The stress of the situation was stowed in a footlocker he’d unlock and deal with on Saturday, just like dragging the lawnmower out of the shed on a normal August weekend.