Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

Lou’s conscience, and the French police in St. Barths considered the matter closed. That bothered Truck about as much as it bothered me, since we were getting paid to go to one of the swankiest places on earth.

“By the way, if by some miracle we do find Jerry alive, Lou’s paying me $250,000.”

Truck’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t say nothing about that.”

“Because nobody expects it to happen. It’s a bullshit incentive, kind of like giving me a lottery ticket.”

Truck worked his jaw back and forth, puckered and unpuckered his lips.

“Just the same, what’s my cut if we find him?”

“$20,000 make you happy?”

His smile lit up the cockpit. “Damn straight.”

We flew southeast along the Cuban coast and continued on that course until Haiti appeared ahead. Truck stared out the window.

“Dear Lord,” he said. “Keep us away from that voodoo hell hole.”

The fear of voodoo from a big man like Truck Lewis made me smile. The barbed wire tattoo around his left bicep made him look like much more of a hard-ass than he really was.

Rather than fly across Hispaniola, I vectored north and watched my GPS until I was over the point where my records indicated the Concepcíon had sunk. There was no boat in sight on the rolling deep blue seas. I couldn’t imagine Jack mounting an expedition that quickly, but I had to see for myself. I exhaled a long breath. These were now forbidden waters.

I turned toward Punta Cana and after another thirty minutes got permission to land at the eastern tip of the island. I circled around, added flaps, reduced power, and put the Beast down smoothly on runway twelve. While primarily dominated by major resorts, many of which had walls like fortresses to keep the natives out, the Dominican Republic had several commercial airports.

To pass the time, I explained to Truck that the DR had the second largest populace and economy in the Caribbean and Latin America. The island had come a long way since Christopher Columbus first set foot here in 1492 and proclaimed it Le Espanola, or Hispaniola.

“Back in those days the island was occupied by Taino Indians that had emigrated from South America. Unfortunately the Europeans brought disease that led to epidemics of smallpox and measles—killed off most of the native inhabitants, cleared the path toward a plantation economy and a slave population that—”

“Gotta take a wicked leak,” Truck said.

I swallowed back any further history lesson.

Air Traffic Control directed us across a series of taxiways toward the Fixed Base Operation where we’d fill the twin 110-gallon fuel tanks—we were close to empty after the nearly thousand miles we’d flown.

Something caught my eye amidst the few dozen private planes tied down in rows beside private hangers—a gray Grumman Widgeon, CU-N-1313.

Jack Dodson was here. Crap!

Guilt stabbed my heart at the recollection of my former plane—destroyed and abandoned in Cuba—more a family member than an airplane, and this one looked just like her. I aimed the Beast toward an open spot away from the Widgeon and went through the checklist to shut her down.

Truck left fast in search of the restroom. I radioed the FBO and asked for the fuel truck to come as quickly as possible. Given the time of year we only had a couple hours of sunlight left and I didn’t want to try to land on St. Barths in the dark. Plus, the last thing I could afford was to bump into Jack.

Once outside, I checked in all directions. Seeing nobody, I double-timed it toward the Widgeon.

“Buck Reilly?”

I swung around fast to find the fuel truck had pulled up behind the Beast.

“Permission to fill her up?” His Spanish accent made it sound like he wanted to “feel her up.”

“Ah, yeah, sure.”

He hesitated, and I scurried over to where he stood and handed him the Black Visa card. He nodded once, spoke Spanish into a radio, and waited. After a moment, a voice crackled a response, and he stepped into the hatch to climb atop the port wing to reach the first fuel tank.

Back to the Widgeon, I studied the fuselage. Little dents here and there stirred memories, but was I imagining them? The port wing on this Widgeon’s assembly looked secure and the rivets matched those on the starboard side. I’d removed Betty’s port wing and used it on the Beast, only to exchange it with an Alaskan charter service once Ray and I commenced restoration of the Goose.

Betty had been burnt down to bare metal. Could someone really have restored her so expertly? Without parts? In Cuba?

I ran my hand down her fuselage and a sense of warmth ran through me.

“Mr. Reilly!”

My heart jumped. The attendant waved his clipboard. Truck was climbing back onto the Beast and I checked the sun—well into its downward arc. Time to go.

I signed the credit card receipt without even checking the amount. The fuel jockey nodded, peeled me off a copy, and spun on his heel to climb back aboard his truck.

We took off without seeing Jack.

A shiver curled my toes.

Anticipation before a salvage trip always did that—even if it was for a human being.

The rectangular port of Gustavia was encircled in red roof tops and filled with yachts. Hills rose up on three sides, their tops washed in an orange glow from the sun on the horizon behind us. White beaches and hilly green contours were sparsely dotted with luxurious villas, which set St. Barths apart from most islands. Scant light illuminated the two peaks ahead, with the path between them deep in shadows that led to the drop into St. Barths’ airport.

Literally.

The nose of the Beast was pointed to the crotch of two hills that rose steeply up in opposite directions but left a narrow gap to fly through.

“What the hell you doing?” Truck leaned forward. “Those hills—”

The plane jerked from an updraft. I edged forward on my seat—hands bouncing on the wheel, teeth pressed tight—focused on the short runway just ahead that began on the