Page 32 of Maddy's Justice

While the other two continued to watch the girls, Evan made a quick call on his radio.

“They’ll be taking off in fifteen minutes,” Evan told his boss.

“Good. They know I want the plane back tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir,” Evan replied.

“Now, let’s go meet our new guests.”

The plane was a Learjet 45. The crew’s boss was never on board when it was returning to America with a shipment from the island. The pilot and co-pilot were very well-paid former USAF jet jockeys. They were partners who had flown over a hundred combat missions together in the Middle East. Both had been quietly asked to leave at the end of their enlistment. Following orders and playing well with others was simply not in their DNA.

They had once flown Evan and an SAS team into a night drop in Iraq. Their flying skill and bravado had made a positive impression. When Evan obtained his present job, they were among the first for him to look up. Mike Strand and Mike Hillsdale, The Two Mikes’ Flying Service, they liked to joke.

The Lear was a buyback from the DEA. It had been captured and confiscated from Colombians. Using his boss’ connections, Evan had almost stolen the aircraft for four hundred thousand dollars. It was worth three times that, but the government, being indifferent to even minimal good business practices, let it go anyway.

The floor was ripped open and a cargo area was installed capable of holding up to a ton of drugs beneath the floor. The interior was then redecorated with removable seats. If the plane was captured, they would simply buy it back again.

With the stash safely loaded below the carpeted floor, Mike Strand eased the bird onto the runway. The two men gave a final wave to the ground crew and roared off over the Gulf.

Crazy Mike Strand would keep the jet barely 50 feet above the calm Gulf waters. In less than an hour and a half, he would land at a private strip roughly 80 miles north of New Orleans. A half-hour later, the two men would be on their way to Galveston. Another multimillion-dollar load of poison injected into the American blood stream. Total number of deaths: unknown but substantial.

Early the next morning the island’s owner stood at the railing of the massive deck of the main house. He was watching his new guests enjoying the pool below him while also looking for his ride to arrive. While he stood sipping cognac-laced coffee he thought back to the previous evening.

Despite his assurances that no harm would come to them, the twins were very wary. Their world had been turned upside down and inside out. All they really wanted was to be back in Iran with their parents. Yes, their current environment was more opulent, but it could not allay their fears or assuage their grief. In short, they simply wanted to go home.

His handheld radio beeped, and he picked it up off the table he was standing beside. Pressing the “speak” button, he said yes, then listened.

“Ten minutes out, sir,” he heard Evan announce.

“Good, I’ll be down when it lands. I want a quick turnaround, back to Chicago.”

“Take good care of them,” the island’s owner told Odessa. “Any problems, have Evan call me immediately.”

He then turned to the pilots and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Their boss’ luggage already loaded; the Mikes stood at the door to greet him while he entered the aircraft. Barely five minutes later, they were rising into the cloudless, gulf sky.

A hundred miles out from Isla Cantador, the Cartel’s Beechcraft turboprop was once again heading toward them. On board was a bonus for transporting this latest shipment of drugs. Only this time instead of three teenage girls, the Cartel was delivering three teenage boys. Used up and psychologically destroyed. Except, once they were cleaned up, fed, and rested, boys would normally create a greater challenge. The island had three guests for the coming weekend. Their host would be back for the American Memorial Day holiday. He was all set to entertain two South American businessmen and a Bolivian army general with a special hunt. Once again, the “game” would be the three boys about to arrive.

ELEVEN

“Big day today, Boss?” the chauffer/security guard asked his passenger.

“Oh, I guess no more than usual,” the passenger, James Labelle, replied from the backseat.

The chauffeur had seen Labelle fold up this morning’s Wall Street Journal and place it on the backseat. This was a morning ritual. The chauffer, Alan Dale, would drive silently letting Labelle read the paper. The two men had been together for almost two years. During that time, they had created a convivial relationship built on mutual respect. Plus, for Alan Dale, it was a smooth, if somewhat boring gig. Driving the Mercedes 560S was a treat.

“You meeting the, ah, Italian friends today?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Labelle said feigning an admonition. “Keep that to yourself,” he unnecessarily added.

Dale laughed and replied by saying, “I don’t know how you can stand being in the same room with him.”

“Sometimes, it’s not easy, but he could become very useful,” Labelle answered.

“Nice day, today,” Dale said looking to his left at the calm waters of Lake Michigan and the sunny blue sky overhead. “You still planning on flying down to the island this weekend?”

Today was the Monday before the Memorial Day weekend. The quasi-official start to summer in America.

---