Maritime Caper (Coastal Fury Book 12) - Matt Lincoln (have you read this book TXT) 📗

out anything,” she had said. “And we can’t assume anything, either. There’s no telling what they think we know.”

She wasn’t wrong to think this, nor was the FBI wrong to have agents staking out every known Holland property in the country. If they made a wrong move, we would no doubt catch them.

But something told me, as I looked through the pictures of this seemingly carefree couple on an unknown beach that they seemed to have all to themselves, that these people wouldn’t be making any wrong moves. They were too good for that, too shrewd.

They may appear to be vapid Hollywood types making any last desperate grabs at youth that they could, but in actuality, I knew them for what they were: cunning drug lords who had managed to amass a broad network of illicit revenue streams in the United States over who knew how many years without garnering so much as a hint of suspicion their way until now.

No, these images I was looking at were just one facet of a well-crafted persona that Chester and Ashley Holland—or whoever they were, really—had cultivated over the past decade or more, judging by the age of some of their profiles.

Their friends lists were large, and I knew that the FBI had conducted interviews with many people on them. But there seemed to be no overlap between the Hollands’ social circle as above-board American real estate moguls and their secret identities as drug lords. Their friends didn’t know a thing and seemed nothing short of flummoxed by the idea that Chester and Ashley could be involved with anything like this.

The FBI continued to grill the Hollands’ social circle, but I didn’t think they would get anywhere with this. Their social life, much like everything else, was all part of the facade meant to protect them in the event that they were found out.

And that moment had arrived.

Neither of the Hollands had posted on any of their social media profiles since what went down in the Keys. Actually, they hadn’t posted since Birn was taken. That first week could’ve been written off as some downtime since they didn’t post all that often. But almost a month was longer than they had ever gone without showing off their lavish lifestyle. Something was up.

I knew that I wasn’t the only one checking up on the Hollands’ profiles. But it gave me a sense of momentum to do so, as though I might actually be accomplishing something. Not that I expected there to be any activity. It was more like the lack of activity kept confirming what I already suspected: that the Hollands were on the run and that they had been preparing for this eventuality for years, ensuring that they were several steps ahead of us the whole time.

I could only hope that we could figure out how to take a leap forward before it was too late. Letting these guys get away would set a dangerous precedent that the United States was fertile ground for foreign drug activity. We had enough problems with regional flare-ups, but a syndicated operation like this couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

I heard a muffled voice call for boarding for my flight and realized that a fair amount of time had passed as I’d been absorbed in my research on the Hollands.

When I diverted my eyes from my tablet screen, they were glassy and glazed over, and I realized just how much time had elapsed. I closed my tablet and stuffed it in my carry-on. I didn’t have a bag to check since I packed so light. Then I boarded my flight.

It was a small plane, headed into a small airport in Virginia, so there was no distinction between first class and coach. I lucked out and got a seat near the front and away from any potentially screaming children or obnoxious seatmates. The guy next to me was just reading with headphones in his ears.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, trying to pass the flight in silence and let myself relax some. But my thoughts kept drifting back to the Hollands and my tablet.

Finally, right before the flight attendants were about to give their little speech about flight safety and tell us to turn off all our devices, I pulled out my phone and texted Holm, asking for a quick update on the situation at MBLIS.

“You’re impossible,” he messaged back just as quickly as I had sent my own text. “You can’t even go for two hours without working.”

“I know, I know, just tell me,” I typed back quickly. “I’m going to get in trouble with the flight staff.”

“Only if you promise not to do anything work or pirate treasure related on your flight,” my partner shot back, and I let out an exasperated little sigh that drew the ire of my seat companion, who gave me the stink eye.

Apparently, I was the bad seatmate I’d been trying to avoid. Who would’ve guessed?

“Okay, I promise,” I texted. “Just tell me.”

“They think they’ve confirmed it’s them,” Holm said, and I was immediately glad that I’d checked in. “They ruled out the smudged camera theory, at least. Still nothing on where they could be, though. Could be anywhere in the whole world by now.”

“Do you need me to come back?” I asked in another message, glancing up at the flight attendants to see if the door was closed. Yeah, no luck there. I could still make a scene and flash my badge to get out if I had to, though.

“NO!” Holm sent in all capitals. “Just chill out. Nothing’s really changed. No one’s going anywhere, and there isn’t technically a case. I told you, I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“You didn’t let me know about this,” I shot back.

“I thought you were in the air already,” he messaged. “I was going to call you when you landed.”

“Phones off,” a droll voice came from beside me, and I looked up to see one of the flight attendants glaring