Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(3)

“Thank you, I will,” Stone said.

They occupied their table and ordered dinner and wine.

“Tell me about your girl who’s coming,” Stacy said.

“Her name is Holly; she’s ex-Army, and she used to be chief of police in a town called Orchid Beach, up the East Coast, which is where we met some years ago. She went to work for the government after that. I live in New York, and she’s in Washington, D.C., now, so we don’t see each other as often as we’d like.”

“Stacy regards any unmarried man as a challenge to her matchmaking skills, so watch out.”

“Any more like you at home, Stacy?” Stone asked.

“Three sisters, but I married the last one off to the guy with the house in Santa Fe. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, well.” Dinner came, and as they were eating, Stone saw two men walk into the club, stop and look around. They were both in their late thirties or early forties and had a hard look about them.

“Who are they?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know,” Cal said. “I was over at the Galleon Marina this afternoon, and they came in aboard a cigarette-style boat, what the drug runners around here used to use. There aren’t so many of them anymore, though. Those two don’t look friendly.”

The two men were approached by another, younger man, who conversed briefly with them, then they turned and left, looking sour.

“I guess the commodore didn’t like the look of them, either,” Cal said. “I think they just got the members-only brush-off. Normally, if visitors are members of another yacht club, they’ll be given club privileges for a few days. I had the feeling those guys were looking for somebody but didn’t find him.”

“Cal is a pretty good judge of human nature,” Stacy said.

Bobby Nesbitt came back from a drink and asked them for requests.

“How about some No?l Coward?” Stone asked.

“Done,” Bobby said. He sat down and started to play “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” then segued into “I’ll See You Again.”

“He’s good,” Stone said to Cal and Stacy.

They finished dinner, had a nightcap, then Stone excused himself. “I think I’ll turn in,” he said. “Long flight from New York today.”

Cal grabbed the check, and Stone said, “Next time is mine.”

As he walked to his car he heard the throaty rumble of a boat that sounded too big for Garrison Bight, where the yacht club was located. He drove out of the club lot, and as he turned right onto North Roosevelt Boulevard, which ran along the water, he saw a cigarette-style boat of, maybe, fifty feet moving around the bight, looking at boats. There were two men aboard, but Stone couldn’t see them well enough or long enough to know if they were the two men who’d attempted to crash the club.

As he drove away, he heard a roar as the boat’s engines were briefly revved. It sounded angry.





3



STONE DROVE to the airport the following morning to get a better look at his hangar. As he entered the airport he saw the sheriff’s office, so he parked, went inside, and asked for an application for an airport security pass. Shortly, he found himself taking a computer-based course in airport rules; then he was photographed, fingerprinted, and, finally, given his pass, which he was told to wear on a chain around his neck for easy identification.

Thus armed, he used his new pass to open the security gate, then drove over to his hangar. It was big—almost, but not quite, big enough for two airplanes. It looked well-built and secure, which relieved him, because he had bought it sight unseen. His cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Holly said. “Slight misunderstanding with the arrival airport: we’re landing at the Naval Air Station, not Key West International. Better security and more anonymity. It’s on Boca Chica, just north of Key West, and the guard at the gate will have your name. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

“Got it,” Stone replied. “I’ll see you there.” He hung up and switched on his GPS in the car, and the route became obvious. Twenty minutes later, he gave his name to the guard at the gate, his car was searched, and he was admitted and told where to park.

A few minutes later, from his parking spot, he saw a Gulfstream, emblazoned with the legend, “United States of America,” touching down on the runway. He waited in his car, as instructed, until Holly appeared, dressed in jeans, a tank top, her red hair covered by a head scarf, and dark glasses, followed by a crew member with her carry-on bag. She walked over to the car, avoided hugging or kissing him, and got into the front passenger seat, while Stone and the crewman put her baggage into the trunk.

Stone got in and drove off toward the gate.

“I’m sorry to be standoffish,” Holly said, “but I didn’t want to get recognized while throwing myself at a man. I’ll throw myself at you when we get home.”

“I’ll look forward to it. How’d it go in Cuba?”

“Oh, it was mostly ceremonial; not a lot else got done.” As the gate opened for them they heard the Gulfstream’s engines restarting.

“Nice ride,” Stone said.

“It is, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not Air Force One, but it’s roomy enough for a single girl and her bags. I left my security team aboard; they don’t like that but, from time to time, I insist, and I haven’t been kidnapped by terrorists yet.”