Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(42)
35.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 8:22 P.M.
Where the hell is Jessica?” Judd shouted to his empty office. He slammed down the phone.
He hadn’t wanted help from his wife. But he hadn’t seen any option, so he’d reluctantly asked Jessica to go to the fund-raiser for Brenda Adelman-Zamora and see what she could find out. He was hoping she would discover a link to Ruben Sandoval. Or at least a clue as to the political activities of the Cuban exile community in Florida. Something. Anything.
But she hadn’t called him back. Jessica also hadn’t replied to his text messages and now she wasn’t answering her phone. It was going straight to voicemail as if her phone were turned off. Or lost. That wasn’t like her.
Judd tried to concentrate on his work, on figuring out the connections between Sandoval, Richard Green, the captured Americans, the White House, and the U.S. Congress. Judd knew he was missing something, probably something big. And he was now reliant, yet again, on Jessica to find the lost piece of the puzzle.
Where they hell was she? Assist was rule one. This was why Judd and Jessica had promised to help each other when they could. They wouldn’t become entangled in each other’s missions, but they were supposed to be a team. So where was she?
Maybe asking his wife to go to a party at a fancy house in South Florida was a mistake? Party . . . Judd thought. I’m stuck here in the stale air of a State Department office while Jessica is probably sipping champagne?
36.
PORT EVERGLADES, FLORIDA
THURSDAY, 8:24 P.M.
The reverberation of the blast rocked Jessica’s skull, but she retained consciousness.
She watched the orange fireball plume from just below the water’s surface. Jessica then held her breath and waited a few more seconds, just as she had been trained, pausing to allow the smoking debris from the destroyed Cobalt to slam back to earth and fizzle. She swam underwater a few yards closer to shore, searching for a safe place to resurface. The gnarled knuckles of mangrove roots provided the perfect camouflage.
Jessica, hidden among the mangroves, grabbed a quick breath and then stealthily lowered her body again so just her eyes were above the water. Like an alligator stalking prey, she floated motionlessly, watching Ricky Green pilot the cigarette boat in circles, searching for her body, in the black water amid the smoldering flotsam. She could taste the brackish, salty water on her lips. Ricky then shut down the engine and pulled out a heavy-duty Maglite, sweeping a bright beam across the marina.
After finding nothing, he cursed loudly. An old man in a security guard uniform suddenly appeared on the marina dock. “Hey, buddy, you see that?” he shouted, cupping both hands around his mouth.
“No! I didn’t see what happened,” Ricky replied, shrugging. “Grab my line!” Ricky tossed the man a bowline and they tied up the cigarette. Small specks of burning embers floated where Jessica’s boat had been.
“Holy moley,” the old man’s voice quavered. “I just saw a ball of fire. Golly, anybody on that boat?”
“I’ll keep looking,” Ricky said, holding up his flashlight. “You go call nine-one-one!”
Jessica watched the guard limp off as Ricky hustled across the marina to the parking lot. He checked over both shoulders, then the lights of a bright yellow Hummer flashed and she could hear the chirp-chirp as the doors unlocked. Ricky slid into the Hummer’s driver’s seat and drove out toward the gate.
Jessica swam over to the dock and scampered up a ladder. The old man emerged from a small shed, holding a cell phone, his eyes wide as he suddenly noticed the beautiful woman in a soaked cocktail dress. “Hey, lady, you all right?” he shouted.
“Call the police!” she shouted.
“I’m on the line right now!” he said, holding up his phone to show her.
“Give me the phone,” she ordered. “You get a spotlight and start searching the shoreline.”
“Where’d that other guy go?” he asked, tossing her the phone.
“I think I saw a body over there,” she said, pointing toward the darkest part of the mangrove stand. “A dead body. Go now!”
As the man disappeared back into the marina office, Jessica kicked off her shoes and sprinted down the parking lot after the Hummer.
Onlookers started to emerge from other parts of the marina. Another security guard, driving a golf cart, appeared from around a corner. Jessica hysterically pointed back toward the docks. “They need help! That way!” The golf cart sped off.
A carbon-black and cherry-red Kawasaki Ninja suddenly veered toward her. A crotch rocket, she thought. Perfect. Jessica waved both her arms and the motorcycle came to a violent stop right in front of her.
“There’s been an accident! They need help!” she cried, pointing behind her. The rider yanked off his helmet. His blond buzz cut, muscular build, and thick neck told Jessica immediately that he was an athlete or ex-military. “What, lady?” he squinted at her. “What are you saying? Are you okay?”
“There!” she shrieked. “Give me your helmet. They need you there!” She kept pointing behind her.
The man thrust his helmet into her grasp and ran in the direction of the dock. Jessica took a deep breath, composed herself, then slid the helmet on her own head. She carefully tightened the chin strap, mounted the Ninja, and slipped the old man’s cell phone into her bra. Jessica twisted the throttle grip twice, feeling the vibrations of the racing engine surge through her body. Then she kicked down on the gearshift and zoomed off.