Читать книгу Hidden Agendas - Paul Boardman - Страница 3

The sun was setting quickly and the happy hour crowd was winding down, most of them headed elsewhere for their evening meal. A lone man sat at the bar overlooking the deck, the lagoon and the sea beyond the artificial breakwater. The bar stools on either side of him were empty. He wore khaki shorts, a tank top and a pair of worn out running shoes and was sipping Jack Daniels over ice. The tattooed arm band on his left bicep accentuated the sculptured muscles of his arms. As did the muscle shirt. The man was strong and he made no bones over displaying his strength to the world. His face was also broad, accentuated by strong heavy cheekbones and chin. His skin had deep lines carved in it by the sun, salt water and hard living.

Along the coast, most of the boats had entered harbor. Those few that remained on the open water switched on their running lights. A dark haired man with a swarthy, Hispanic complexion strode into the bar and sat beside the first. Neither gave each other much notice. A waitress appeared from behind them and the dark haired man ordered a Corona. The waitress promptly returned with a pair of them, her final tribute to happy hour.

Ten minutes passed. The dark haired man squeezed the lime into his second beer and took a long swallow as he prepared to leave. When he put his hands on the bar to stand up his hand came close to the first man’s elbow. As he pushed himself away from the bar, he wordlessly headed for the door. The first man shifted in his seat to make room as the second one stood. As the swarthy man left the establishment, the man at the bar readjusted his forearms and continued to watch the stragglers come into harbor. No one noticed how his arm covered a note the Hispanic man had left behind.

An hour and another Jack Daniels later, the muscular man was driving home, taking a circuitous route through downtown Miami, watching continuously in his rear view mirror. He snapped open a cell phone and dialed a number with his thumb.

“The drop is tomorrow night, seven PM. Here are the coordinates.” He read the longitude and latitude. “That looks like fifty miles off shore. I hope the weather is good.” He waited for confirmation as the recipient of the call read back the coordinates.

“You got it”, he said and snapped the phone shut. Simultaneously his jaw clamped down, ever so slightly and the muscles in his face rippled.

At six thirty the following night he was skimming across the open water in a powerful cigarette boat, thirty miles off the Florida coast. This time he was wearing a pair of jeans, a long sleeve jersey and a nylon wind breaker. Underneath his shirt was a bullet proof vest.

He was three miles from his destination when he thought he saw a flash on the horizon. Keeping the throttle forward he studied the chart plotter on his instrument panel. A blip appeared a moment later on the split screen, indicating an object on radar. He checked his watch and backed off the throttle slightly.

“On target”, he mumbled to himself as he killed his powerful engines. There was the sound of an approaching aircraft, coming in low and fast. “Twin props”, he noted to himself.

As the aircraft approached it slowed down and banked away. A large dark object was jettisoned from the rear door. It was difficult to see as it fell, but the splash was evident, a few hundred yards away. Without hesitation the man started his engines and motored over to the object that was floating in the water. Working quickly he mounted a portable davit into a bracket and reached over the side of the boat with a boat hook. The bundle was solidly lashed with a ring both top and bottom to receive a cable hook, regardless of how it floated in the water. Less than a minute later, the package was sitting in the cockpit of the boat and the davit had been thrown overboard.

The man reached for a satellite phone and relayed the message that the package was on board.

Two high speed DEA attack helicopters which had been hovering, just above the waves twenty miles away, rose and began pursuit of the twin engine plane.

“Open the package. Check the contents”, came the orders over the satellite phone.

The muscular man slid a razor sharp fishing knife under the lashings and sliced the rope. The high impact plastic case was bolted shut. It took another two minutes to loosen the bolts and undo the dogs that clamped the waterproof container tight. The entire lining of the case was foam to ensure it would float but the center contained plastic bags packed with a white powder. The man slit open one of the bags and tasted the contents. He spit out the white, chalky goo that stuck to the end of his tongue with utter contempt.

Grabbing the satellite phone he yelled into it.

“Its not cocaine! Repeat NOT cocaine! Abort! Repeat, Abort!” He spit over the side of the boat, disgusted by the pasty taste in his mouth.

The man stared in amazement at the plastic case. He ripped out one bag and then another. What was the meaning of this? Everything had been planned so well. He had been undercover for two years! As he pulled out the fourth bag he realized the real purpose of the drop. Carefully nestled beneath the bags of talcum powder, rested a half pound of plastic explosive, connected to a detonator that was digitally ticking away.

Nine … eight … seven …

“Options? Throw the case overboard. No … too heavy … not enough time. Dive!”

The man dove over the side, determined to get as deep in the water as he could. When the shock wave hit him it expelled every ounce of air from his lungs and merely expedited his descent, into the abyss.