Trapped (27 page)

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fifty-five minutes since he left the comfortable leather seat

of the Town Car. In a little less than four hours the sun will

rise. Time to put the pedal to the metal.

He adjusts the pack, finding the sweet spot between his

shoulder blades, increases his respiration until his lungs are

fully filled with the warm, humid air, and then begins to run.

Randall Shane is a large man, too big and heavily muscled

to make a good long-distance runner—a marathon is out of

the question, it would pound his joints to dust. But with his

long stride eating up the yards he figures he should be able

to cover a mere three miles in a little less than twenty

minutes, no problem.

Half an hour later, lungs aching, heart slamming, drenched

in sweat, he finally staggers to the edge of the hidden landing

strip, collapses to his aching knees and vomits copiously

into the gravel.

From the refuge of the tall grass he surveys the terrain

through the NV goggles. It’s no accident that the landing strip

doesn’t look like much. Just a slash through the pinelands, a

mile in length but less than a hundred feet wide. From altitude

it looks like a short stretch of unfinished highway, maybe, or

the remains of some abandoned canal or drainage project.

Years ago there were dozens of similarly camouflaged land-

ing roads cut into the wilderness west of Miami. Even from

the air they were hard to locate, mere slices in the firmament,

but if the gravel was packed and graded properly a sizable

aircraft could land and take off, provided the exact coordi-

nates were known to the pilot. Some cases it wasn’t even nec-

essary to take off again—the value of the illicit cargo was

such that the aircraft could be abandoned, or dragged into the

swamp to make room for the next flight.

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This is no abandoned airstrip. There are a few weeds pok-

ing up through the compacted surface, but the whole thing

has a groomed look that doesn’t originate in nature. Someone

is actively maintaining the place. Let it go for even a few

months and the scrub would take over.

Shane hasn’t seen them yet, but he’s betting there are hid-

den beacons—flicked on for only moments at a time—that

allow night-landing pilots to make fine adjustments at the

very last minute.

The secret landing strip is interesting—the only possible

use is for illicit cargo—but what originally got his attention

on the Google Earth image lies a quarter mile away, and as

rushed as he is for time he wants to thoroughly surveil it be-

fore approaching. In the satellite imagery the anomaly

appeared to be no more than a faint, roughly rectangular

shadow, notable only because of its proximity to the mile-

long slash that he’d recognized as a possible landing strip.

In the lenses of the NV goggles its true form is revealed.

Hangar.

An aircraft hangar cleverly constructed and landscaped to

look like a natural slope of ground, and therefore almost

completely invisible from directly overhead. Palmetto and

slash pine grow from the top of the mound, contributing to

the effect, but on the side facing the runway there’s a vertical

cut wide enough to accommodate almost any aircraft capable

of landing on the narrow strip. As if the builder had been

inspired by some of the old camouflage techniques from

World War II where, say, what appeared to be a caravan trail

in North Africa might actually hide a squadron of fighter

planes under the dunes, ready to roll out at a moment’s notice.

This is scrub pineland, not desert, but the effect is the same:

hide in plain sight by blending into the landscape. The hangar

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entrance has been obscured with palm fronds, but Shane can

make out the vertical panels of a wide door. A shut-up hangar

without cross ventilation, it must be hot as an oven in there.

What’s inside that needs hiding?

He’s approaching the hangar, intent on a closer look, when

the high drone of a gasoline motor makes itself known. Com-

ing at speed. Automotive engine, not aircraft. Shane runs full

tilt for cover as headlights flicker though the palmettos. He

scrambles atop the mound of earth covering the hangar, figur-

ing if he’s on higher ground the headlights won’t pick him up.

A heartbeat later a pickup truck skids onto the runway

from the access road, kicking gravel, and heads straight for

the hidden hangar.

What happens in the next few moments will depend on

whether the sudden appearance of visitors is a coincidence

or the result of remote surveillance. Maybe he has unknow-

ingly activated a motion detector or been picked up by an in-

frared video-cam. Or maybe it’s just time to make the donuts,

or check on the drug stash or whatever.

Belly to the ground, Shane edges his way back from the

curve of earth that obscures the hangar beneath it. When the

truck stops moving, so does he, knowing that a human figure

is easier to pick out of a dim landscape when the eyes are

quiet, not jouncing around on the stiff suspension of what

looks to be a shiny new Dodge Ram.

Moment of truth, Shane thinks as the truck doors snap

open, shedding pools of yellow light. Wishing he had a

firearm, or lacking that, a Kevlar vest.

The cab spills out three men, two of them young and

solidly built, of more or less identical height. The third man,

stretching and yawning, is somewhat older and taller, a

scrawny, narrow-shouldered guy with a funny, protuberant

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belly. Like he’d swallowed half a soccer ball. He’s wearing

a straw cowboy hat, well broken in, and has a lilting drawl

that sounds to Shane like coastal Alabama, or maybe the

Panhandle region of Florida.

“In there?” Straw Hat wants to know, loud enough to be

heard over the big V-8, which has been left running.

“Pretty cool, huh?” says one of the two younger men,

tugging on his cap. “Sort of like the bat cave.”

“Bat cave? Y’all got them fanged little devils out heah in

the swamp?”

“Naw. Like Batman from the movies.”

“Oh yeah? Oh, ah gets it, Roy. Good ’un.”

Shane quickly picks up on the fact that of the two younger

men, the one called Roy does most of the talking. It’s also

clear that an intruder has not been detected—the men have

business having to do with the hangar.

Roy takes out a ring of keys—his face obscured by a ball-

cap visor—and approaches the hangar, thereby passing out

of sight. Meanwhile the other one—they could easily be

brothers—lowers the truck’s tailgate, recovers a coil of thick

rope or cable.

Beneath him, Shane hears a big hangar door sliding open.

“Son of a bitch!” the man in the straw cowboy hat ex-

claims. “Oo-ee, y’all ain’t lyin’! Ah be damned if this ain’t

the real deal!”

Very excited about whatever it is inside the hangar.

“Pretty little thang, ain’t she?”

“Ah swear, Roy, she’s givin’ me a bone! Hot damn!”

The leering tone of conversation almost convinces Shane

that the two men are discussing Jane Garner’s missing daugh-

ter. Until they rig the rope from the front bumper of the

Dodge and pull the sexy aircraft from the hangar.

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The long white wings of a twin-engine Beechcraft King

Air pass directly beneath Shane, looking down from the top

of the hangar. Might as well be angel wings. He can’t quite

make out the tail numbers, not from this angle, not yet, but

he knows in his heart that this is Edwin Manning’s missing

aircraft, the very same plane his hotshot son flew out of Long

Island, accompanied by Kelly Garner.

Lying on the roof of the hidden hangar, Shane grins into

the dirt and mouths a silent Yes!

13. Chasing The Hum Job

Sleeping in chairs is bad for the back. Plus it can give you

nightmares. Apparently I fell asleep sitting up, waiting for the

laptop to bong, the binoculars cradled in my lap. Dreaming

that Kelly is somewhere in Manning’s penthouse but I can’t

find her because the binoculars won’t focus. Also I’m late for

a fitting and can’t locate the wedding party.

Anxious dreams, but not quite nightmares. In nightmares

Kelly would be dead.

My bleary eyes are open for a moment before I register

what woke me. Daylight filtering through the sliders? My

own internal alarm clock? The doorbell?

Bong.

The warning signal on the GPS! The laptop is telling me

that Manning is on the move!

With a sharp little scream I jump to my feet. Eyes skidding

wildly around a superluxury, two-bedroom hotel suite, empty

except for me.

“Shane!”

Pointless. My half-asleep brain boots up just enough to

remind me that the big guy left last night on a mission. A

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mission he refused to discuss. Some creepy-crawly investiga-

tion thing it’s best I don’t know about. Or so he said. For all I

know he’s trolling South Beach for leggy lingerie models.

Hitting the late-night club scene because, you know, he can’t

sleep.

Why not? I know nothing about the man, not really, except

that he’s left me holding the bag. What should I do? Grab the

laptop, run down to our rented car and try to follow the GPS

signal? Stand on the balcony and scream? What?

“Mrs. Garner?”

Shane stands in the bedroom doorway, bare chested, wear-

ing white boxers and a big bandage on his leg. Dark blood

seeps from the bandage. His eyes are puffy. Like me, he’s just

awakened.

Liar.

“You were asleep!” I say accusingly. “You said you

never sleep!”

“Yeah. Amazing,” he responds thickly, shaking his head.

“REM sleep, dreams, the whole nine yards. I got back late

and didn’t want to wake you and I guess I conked out.”

The laptop keeps bonging. Shane finally notices.

“They’re in motion!” he exclaims. “The Hummer is

moving!”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

“Go,” he says, returning to the bedroom for his clothes.

“Get the car out of the garage, meet me on the street. Grab

your purse and go!”

There’s nothing more disorienting than waking up to an

emergency in a strange place. Not that Miami is particu-

larly strange—okay, actually it is—but it isn’t home, and

therefore I can’t rely on a familiar comfort level. It’s as if

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there’s no bottom or limit for my anxiety. And yet I can’t,

no way, I simply can’t let myself turn into a hyperventi-

lating mess.

Cling to that, girl. Make it your religion for just this day,

the Church of No Panic Allowed. Focus on not being afraid,

because your fear could ruin any chance you have of finding

your daughter alive. Don’t think about it, just react. Grab your

purse, run to the elevators. Avoid the temptation to bang on

the doors or punch the button into oblivion, it won’t make

the elevator arrive any faster. Let’s see, twelve stories to the

garage level, does it make sense to take the stairs?

Give it a few more seconds. Patience.

The signal dings, the doors open. Empty car. Perfect. Get

in, punch G, thumb the Door Close button. There, you’re

dropping, going down, gravity never felt so good. And while

you’re dropping try to picture where, exactly, you parked the

rental car, the precious Crown Victoria. See it in your mind.

Recall pulling into the dim garage, slightly blinded, follow-

ing the signs and arrows. Finding a parking slot three rows

from the elevators, feeling proud of yourself as you grabbed

your bag from the trunk, headed for the lobby.

Small miracle, the elevator proceeds uninterrupted to the

garage level. The door slides open. And right there where you

pictured it, the dark green Crown Vic, big as life.

Keys! Are the keys in your purse? How could you be so

stupid! How could you not make sure about the keys?

Tears of frustration start to blur my vision, but that stops

when my questing fingers grasp the plastic fob to the car

keys—a warm pulse of relief—and then I’m in the big sedan,

being waved through the gate and onto the street a full thirty

seconds before Shane hits the lobby level and spots me

waiting at the curb. Bolting through the exit with the laptop

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cradled under his arm like a football. Who are the big guys,

the runners? Fullbacks? He looks like a fullback ready to run

over anyone who dares to get in his way. Except for the small

problem of his Top-Siders being unlaced, flapping danger-

ously. And the slightly askew baseball cap.

“Beautiful,” is the first word out of his mouth as he slips

into the passenger seat, slightly breathless, grinning at me.

“Well done! Go, go! Turn right onto Brickell, then left at the

first light. They’re heading west.”

All the panic and hurry turns out to be unnecessary. The