On the island of Grand Turk, a young couple watched the sun dip toward the horizon. Two dogs lay in the sand beside them, yards from the gently lapping waves on Pillory Beach.
“Cheers, mate,” the petite blonde said, clinking a stubby bottle of Red Stripe against her companion’s. “I know you fancy your craft beers and all, but sometimes I hear Jamaica calling.”
“Won’t hear me complaining,” the tall, lanky man replied, extending a long leg and burrowing a bare foot into the sand.
“Ahhhh…” Emily Durand sighed with pleasure after her opening swig. “Hooray beer.”
Boone Fischer smiled and reached down to scratch behind the ears of Mama, the senior dog that lay snuggled up against his thigh. Their younger dog, Brixton, jumped up in a flurry of sand and made a mad dash for the surf, pouncing on the foam as the water retreated. Both dogs were rescues, Brixton from Belize, and Mama from here in the Turks and Caicos Islands.
“Gonna miss our little pot brownies,” Emily said wistfully.
Boone chuckled. Em had started calling them that just last week. Strays here were called “potcakes.” In Belize they were “potlickers.” And Brix and Mama were both brown.
“They’ll be in good hands. They love our landlady and her pups,” Boone assured her. “And we’re only gonna be gone for the weekend,”
“Yeah, about that… I still think you should visit your mum in Tennessee, since we’ll be in the States anyway.”
“We’re divemastering in South Caicos on Tuesday,” Boone reminded her. “Another time.”
“Speaking of mums… since Mama’s spayed now, and all puppied out… wonder if we should give her a new name?”
“Got anything in mind?”
“Should be something with a similar sound…” Emily mused, taking a contemplative sip of her beer. “How ’bout—”
Her words were cut off as “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls blared from the phone in her pocket. Boone recognized the familiar ringtone Emily had assigned the caller.
Em clawed the green-cased phone out of her pocket and answered, tapping the speakerphone icon. “’Allo, AJ! How’s things in Grand Cayman? You all packed?”
“Thinking about it,” AJ responded. “We had a bit of excitement over here, so I’m running behind.”
“What sort of excitement?” Boone asked.
“Hi, Boone! Oh, you know… crashing seaplane, international intrigue… I’ll fill you in on the drive from Miami to Fort Myers.”
“Oh, bugger!” Em cursed. “I forgot to book the hire car!”
“Actually, that’s why I called,” AJ said. “You don’t need to. I’ll be flying in with an American federal agent bloke I met. Turns out he’s heading to the boat show, and he’s got a car in airport parking at Miami.”
“Works for me!” Em said. “What kind of agent? FBI? CIA?”
“Umm… no, nothing like that. Hey, you two ready to do some boat shopping?”
“Not entirely,” Emily admitted with a sigh.
“Em’s still in the grieving stage,” Boone said.
“Boone is too!” the blond divemaster protested. “He just hides it, with his strong-’n’-silent-type bollocks.”
“We definitely need a new boat,” Boone admitted. Bubble Chasers Diving had lost their dive boat recently, and had been subbing with some of the local dive ops on Grand Turk and South Caicos. It was fun working with new people on a variety of boats, but the two divemasters were eager to get back to running their own op.
“You have anything in mind?” AJ asked.
“Well, I want speed,” Em declared, “and Boone wants something with a shallow draft.”
“Several of the dive ops over here on GT have boats you can bring right up to the beach,” Boone explained. “Pretty convenient for resorts without a dedicated dock. East Bay Resort is gonna get some catamaran dive boats from Aventura, and I saw they had a vendor booth at the boat show, so hopefully we can start there. Provided I can keep Emily away from any six-engine Cigarette boats.”
“Good luck stopping me!”
AJ laughed. “Back to the planning… assuming our flights aren’t delayed, we’re landing at about the same time. Share your location with me once you clear customs, and we’ll meet up near the exit.”
“Good thinking,” Boone said. Cell phone use wasn’t allowed in US Customs, but once they passed through, they could ping AJ’s phone with their own.
“’Course it’s good thinking, we Brits are a clever bunch,” Emily said, her thick South London accent considerably less posh than AJ’s.
“No argument there.”
“Well, I should get going,” AJ said. “Got to get back to my cottage and make up the sofa bed for Secret Agent Man.”
“Ooh! Can’t wait to meet ’im!” Emily gushed. “Right-o, see you stateside.” She hung up and pocketed her phone.
“Secret agent… American… but not FBI or CIA,” Boone mused, then shrugged and raised his beer to his lips. “Well, we’ll know soon enough.”
* * *
Deek leaned to the side while Constable Sommers took the Jeep through yet another roundabout on the Esterly Tibbetts bypass, as the group made their way north from the airport. Nora took the first exit, causing the surprised Deek to bump shoulders with Jazzy as they joined the two-lane West Bay Road, driving parallel to the ocean for a few minutes. Just as the water appeared in clear view on their left, Nora made a left turn then pulled into a small, sloped parking lot next to a colorful little hut.
AJ jumped out. “See you in a mo,” she said, walking towards the hut.
Nora backed up, pulled out onto the road, then backtracked the way they’d come.
“You sure AJ won’t mind me crashing at her place?” Deek asked, leaning between the front seats.
“Why should she mind?” Nora replied, arriving at a four-way intersection they’d driven through a few minutes earlier. “That’s what sofa beds are for.”
Turning right at the stop brought them to a low wall facing the ocean. A tight left then took them by a brightly painted food shack named Heritage Kitchen on the inland side with strings of lights decorating its walls and outdoor dining area.
“Best food, ever,” Jazzy said, pointing to the little eatery.
Continuing south on the narrow road, the seawall and the faint remnants of sunset gave way to large, waterfront homes, and at the end of the road, Nora parked beside a gate in a wood fence just past an expansive home.
“She’ll be right behind us,” Nora commented, turning off the Jeep.
Her phone rang and she looked at the caller ID. “It’s Whittaker,” she said, putting the call on speaker and setting the phone on the dash. “Sir, I have Deek with me.”
“Constable… Mr. Morrison… I have something for you.”
“The phone or the money?” Nora asked.
“Both. Rasha works fast. The bill is definitely from the withdrawal made at the bank earlier today.”
“And the phone?”
“From the number you got from the pilot, we were able to determine its last-known location—thirteen miles east-southeast of East End. But all signal was lost at 7:33 p.m.”
“Faen,” Nora cursed. “He’s on a boat.”
“Likely. And outside our territorial waters.”
“East-southeast isn’t heading for the Sister Islands,” Nora commented.
“No, I bet he’s going to Jamaica,” Deek said. When Nora looked at him, he shrugged. “Maritime Administration analyst, remember? I’ve got maps of the oceans and sea lanes tattooed on the inside of my brain. Detective, was there any Automatic Identification System signal transmitting in the vicinity of that last ping?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Whittaker replied. “But it’s not uncommon for boats to turn off their AIS.”
Deek was well aware of that fact. While there were a few legitimate reasons for a skipper to switch off their identification transponder, often the reasons were more nefarious: drug and weapons smuggling, illegal fishing, human trafficking—even nation-states might send their oil tankers out “dark” to avoid international sanctions.
“If you are able to pull up additional pings from that phone, you may be able to determine the course and speed,” Deek suggested. “And I’d recommend you reach out to the US and Jamaican Coast Guards, to see if they can’t line up an intercept. The nearest commercial airport with international flights is Montego Bay… Wayne Daniels may try to fly out from there.”
“Given your connections in the Maritime Administration, Mr. Morrison… shouldn’t you reach out to the US Coast Guard?”
“Uh… no. You’ll have much faster results, I promise you.”
“Very well. I’ll let you know if we learn anything else. I have Rasha looking into Mr. Daniels’s phone to see if we can determine where it was purchased and where and when it was first activated. You are flying out tomorrow, yes?”
“Yeah… with AJ. I’m actually at her place right now.”
“Well, have a good evening, and come back and visit another time when you can take the time to relax and enjoy our island, Mr. Morrison.”
“I’d like that,” Deek replied, but he seriously doubted international travel lay in his unemployed future.
Nora rang off, and looked up at the rearview mirror where a single headlight in the distance made her squint. “She’s here.”
Nora pocketed the phone and got out with Deek following suit. A deep, throaty rumble approached, and in moments a rider coasted to a stop atop a sleek, expensive-looking motorcycle. A leather riding outfit added some bulk to her otherwise slim figure, but Deek was certain this was AJ—a fact confirmed when she removed her helmet and shook out her purple-streaked blond hair.
“Sorry for the delay! Had to nip down to the shops for a few items for the trip.” She guided the motorcycle through the gate. “You two have any luck tracking down that bloke?”
“Some,” Nora said, and summed up what they’d learned as AJ wheeled her Ducati next to a small cottage in the grounds of the large house.
“I should get the kid home,” Nora said. “Enjoy your trip, AJ. Good luck, Deek.”
“Thank you for your help, Constable,” Deek responded, as he clawed one of his Maritime Administration cards from the sparse supply in his wallet. “If you find out anything more, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
“Hope you get the bad guy,” Jazzy added as the young constable glanced at the card, then tucked it into a pocket.
“You need better cards.” Nora declared, then walked back to the Jeep, letting the gate swing closed behind her and her teenage charge.
AJ was chuckling as she zipped open her riding jacket. “Nora’s not exactly a people person. Come on inside, let me see if I can scrounge some clean sheets for you. It’s an early flight, and we’ll want a proper sleep.”
* * *
Angler stared up at the stars as he lay on the deck, a few life jackets standing in for a mattress, and his waterproof duffel tucked beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. Below, the engine of the inboards imparted a vibration to the surface of his makeshift bed, the numbing sensation bringing to mind those old vibrating beds in rundown motels—more distracting than relaxing. He needed to get some sleep, but his mind kept chattering at him. Before his brain would allow him to nod off, he needed to think through his timetable and see what could be kept on track, and what might need to be shifted.
Prior to sending his final message to Hildebrand, Angler had texted an associate to request transport out of a small airstrip in Negril, the closest possible option. If his calculations were correct, at their current speed, they’d reach Jamaican waters at about eight in the morning. If he could be in the air before nine, he’d be able to reach Florida in time to slip into his prior plans without too many adjustments. Unfortunately, there had been no confirmation before he’d lost signal and deep-sixed his phone.
As soon as the coast was in sight, he’d insert a fresh SIM card and activate his remaining burner phone. He would check on the status of the requested transport, and if there was no response, he’d have to cajole the fishing boat’s captain to take him further up the coast to Montego Bay and try to get a commercial flight out. On the other hand, his transport man was usually solid. Usually. Angler thought back to the previous pilot he’d been forced to eliminate. Best not to repeat that experience with this one, he thought. Three plane crashes in one week would be pushing it.