Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3) by John Cunningham (best manga ereader .txt) 📗

I checked the clock: 4:52.

“If you can get there quick, they—”

“On my way,” I said.

“And Mr. Reilly? There’s a package here at the front desk for you.”

A package?

“Fine, I’ll be right there.”

I grabbed my bag and sprinted down the maze of hallways to the front desk. The man there handed me a package and I took off, through the grounds, past the pool and tiki bar where I’d had a couple too many last night, down the long staircase where I nearly tripped over a massive iguana asleep on the warm stone stair, and onto the dock where a sleepy-eyed captain watched me approach.

“Catch a ride…to the harbor?” I was breathing so hard, my question was nearly unintelligible.

“C’mon, mon.”

I collapsed onto the bench seat, caught my breath, and tore open the bulky envelope. Inside was a cell phone and credit card. No note.

The morning was cool and the stars faded as the sun approached the eastern horizon. The half-moon was just above the hills of St. Thomas. Between day and night I felt lost, concerned and unsure as to what I was doing. One thing was certain, I couldn’t lose the Beast. The old Grumman Goose might be a work in progress, but she was all I had in this world, and given how we’d come together, at an extremely high emotional price and with all the effort, sweat, and what money I had left invested into getting her airworthy, her safety was paramount.

The launch captain sipped coffee and smoked a fat blunt on his way through the harbor. He glanced at me, took in my uncombed shoulder-length hair, and held the spliff out to me. The weed smelled good. I shook my head. I hadn’t lost myself in any drug other than liquor since college.

I glanced around the harbor and saw that only one cruise ship remained at the dock. With little traffic, the launch made good time, and the half-dozen people on the dock jumped out of the way as I leapt from the bow before the captain even wrapped the line around a cleat.

I sprinted down the street and veered left onto the short pier. As I feared: no guards, no fence, no security of any kind. The Beast was there, floating high, and appeared to be at peace in the early morning light. The flat black of the old CIA paint job on the fuselage absorbed light on the port side, and the dull silver of the Alaskan replacement wing and engine glistened on the starboard side.

My heart thumped as I pulled her mooring rope toward me and scanned the port engine, wing, and fuselage. I checked the hatch. At least I’d locked it—what’s this?

There was a long piece of masking tape near the handle.

There were no new scratches or evidence of tampering on the lock. I pressed in closer and saw writing on the tape. There wasn’t much light, but…it was a series of numbers. I squinted and made out the words: “Call me.”

It was a phone number, but there was no name. Could it be the people who snatched John? The guy who called me? Or maybe a reporter?

I peeled the tape off and placed it on a blank page in my little leather notebook. I popped the hatch open, tossed my bag inside, and climbed atop the wing. After inspecting each of the radial engines, manually moving the flaps, and double-checking anything that someone may have been able to reach, I breathed a sigh of relief.

The Beast appeared to be intact.

Before I left Key West I’d updated my information on the local airports, including the St. Thomas Jet Center at the Cyril E. King Airport. The FBO there didn’t open until 7:00 a.m. It was now 6:20. If I timed it right, that would still allow me time to meet Crystal at the ferry in Red Hook by 7:30.

I climbed aboard and repeated the same in-depth inspection of the electrical systems, moving parts, and chastity of the plane’s integrity. All looked good. A sudden jolt of paranoia caused a shiver to run through me. What if someone attached something to the hull?

I sat for a few moments and remembered the call that woke me and set me on this course today. The voice sounded more like an island accent than anything else. And the statements were threatening but not immediate. It wasn’t much to go on, but I decided to trust my gut. And if the note were from my late night caller, why would he ask me to call him if he was going to blow up my plane?

The port engine started right up and shattered the quiet calm of the harbor. The RPMs settled down, and the starboard engine huffed and puffed before it too roared to life. I untied the mooring lines, closed the hatch, and used the light of dawn to taxi toward the take-off zone marked on my sectional chart. With little boat traffic, I was quickly up on the step and in the air. It was now 6:50, my timing, for once, perfect—provided the staff at the Jet Center showed up on time.

“Sorry, girl,” I said.

I smiled. People talked to their cars, their pets, their boats—me, I talked to my plane. The Beast had risen from the ashes of the Bay of Pigs in Cuba, literally fifty-years after the fact, and had been stitched together to form a macabre craft that carried me safely back to Key West. Then, through the efforts of Ray Floyd and myself to find more appropriate long term parts, I’d developed an affection for her, quite different from what I’d felt for Betty. In some ways it ran deeper.

“You know I call you the Beast out of affection.” I patted the top of the instrument panel as we banked hard to starboard for the short flight to Cyril E. King airport just to the west of the seaplane base.

The surprise wake-up call