Page 31 of Maddy's Justice

TEN

Evan Carlin and three of his well-paid, mercenary, psycho guards waited for the inbound aircraft. They were on Isla Cantador at the airstrip. The plane, a low flying twin-engine Beechcraft prop plane was a very reliable yet inexpensive and disposable aircraft. If it was lost to the authorities, the Cartel could replace it with, for them, pocket change.

Evan’s ultra-secure private phone rang. He knew who it was. He had spoken to him twenty-minutes ago.

“Yes, sir,” Evan answered.

“Is it there yet?”

“Not yet, sir,” he answered the island’s owner. “Hang on, sir.”

One of his men was outside the hangar peering through powerful binoculars toward Mexico. It was a typical, bright sunshine, cloudless day. Visibility was at least twenty miles.

Evan left the comfort of the air-conditioned building to check with the lookout. Before he could ask, Evan got his answer.

“Got ‘em,” the man announced. “They’re about eighteen miles out. Should be just a few minutes.”

Evan passed the information onto his boss. The island’s owner was en route from Galveston in a private jet. The timing would be perfect. He would arrive roughly ten minutes after the Beechcraft landed.

Evan and his friends were armed with full-auto MP5s while watching the plane land. The Beechcraft made two to three trips per week. The island was a transit point only. Its owner provided a quick run into the U.S. with the cargo. For this he was paid a cool million, untraceable dollars each week, also delivered by the airplane.

The pilot wheeled the plane around and stopped it directly in front of the hangar. There was a sidewalk leading out from the building with a heavy, canvass tarp with aluminum foil in the middle of it as a canopy covering the sidewalk. Any satellite or photo recon would be unable to film the unloading process.

There were four crew members. The pilot, copilot and two others who would unload the product. Each shipment brought in 1500 to 2000 pounds of fentanyl, oxy and meth shipped through the island. This week, there were two additional, quite expensive passengers being delivered.

A few weeks ago, the island’s owner, a regular participant of the teenage flesh auction, had made a purchase. It was him who had bought the fabulously beautiful, twin Persian girls for the unheard-of sum of seven and a half million dollars. Their names were Abia and Salma.

Following the auction, the twins had been smuggled back into Mexico. There they were kept in comfort at a Cartel ranch. The island’s owner had built a special home on the island for his two prizes, complete with a tennis court and its own swimming pool. All the material for building anything on the island had to come from the Mexican mainland. Shipping the material and construction crew secretly cost a small fortune, but the two girls were worth every penny. The building was now ready for the occupants. Normally, the owner would not be on the island when the weekly cargo plane arrived. To meet the girls for the first time he was making an exception.

Before the plane’s doors were opened, Odessa, the de facto matron of the island, arrived. She was chauffeured in a Mercedes by another security member. When the door was finally opened, the two girls were the first to deplane.

“Welcome to Isla Cantador,” Odessa said in unaccented English.

The twins, looking warily about and holding hands, stepped down onto the sidewalk and did not reply.

“I was told you both speak English. Am I wrong?” Odessa asked.

“We do,” Salma replied. “Why are we being held prisoner?”

“You’re more beautiful than I was told. Please, come with me. We have a very comfortable home for you,” Odessa said, ignoring the question.

“They are exquisite,” the island’s owner said.

He was standing behind a two-way mirror with Odessa and Evan. They were watching the girls as they lounged around in the living room of their plush, million-dollar prison.

“How can you tell them apart?” he asked Odessa.

“Salma is in red, Abia in blue. We will make sure they wear different outfits each day,” she answered.

“Better still, tattoo them with their names on their arms. They are to be guarded as discreetly as possible twenty-four hours a day, understand?” he told Evan.

“Yes, sir.”

“We have a camera in every room except their individual bathrooms per your instructions,” Odessa said.

“If any of your men misbehaves in any way, you personally will film them receiving a painful death,” he again told Evan. “Now, what about today’s shipment? Is it loaded and ready to go?”

“I’ll check,” Evan said.

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