Page 91 of Wild Idol
“I’ll keep tabs on him, but he could go dark at any minute.”
“Is anybody else with him?”
“From what I can tell, there are two other cellular devices aboard the boat.”
“What kind of boat does he own?”
Her fingers tapped the keys. “A Go Fast boat is registered in his name. Star Power.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
“Anytime. I hope you catch this guy.”
The clock was ticking.
52
Echols finally signed off on the warrant.
Everett had a helluva head start. His Go Fast boat moved at a good clip. Everett was already well out to sea.
“What makes you think he’s heading out to Bonefish Run,” the sheriff asked.
“That’s where he’s headed,” I said. “That’s what my intel source tells me.”
“I don’t suppose this information was acquired legally.”
“Call it a hunch,” Jack said with a grin.
We talked the sheriff into taking Tango One. It was the only way we’d reach the island in time.
We loaded into the helicopter as the rotor blades spun up. The engine whined, and the blades thumped. We put on headsets for comms, and the pilot adjusted the controls and lifted from the tarmac. Decked out in tactical gear with AR-15s, thermal optics, smoke grenades, and other goodies, we were ready to rock ‘n’ roll.
We nosed out across the water, heading into the inky abyss.
It was a nice night. Just a few clouds in the sky. The moon glowed the water, sparkling like diamonds. Coconut Key grew small behind us as we cruised low above the surface of the ocean.
Bonefish Key was home to a 2,500-foot airstrip—a weathered and cracked stretch of asphalt that had been used for countless drug runs over the last several decades. The island was private and home to a lodge that had fallen into disrepair over the years. Abandoned now, the island was the perfect place for illicit activities. The airstrip had been affectionately called Bonefish Run by smugglers.
A local pilot, who had done plenty of smuggling runs back in the late ’70s and early ’80s, made the place famous. Mickey Malibu had gotten popped, did his time, and then sold his story to Hollywood. It was the source of several movies, TV shows, and true crime documentaries. Now, he was sitting fat and happy in the Keys, a legend of sorts. He’d flipped on some pretty heavy hitters. Rumor had it there was a contract out on his life, but in all this time, nobody ever came for him.
The rotor blades thumped as we streaked across the sky, racing out to the island.
At 150 knots, it didn’t take long.
As we approached, I saw Everett’s Go Fast anchored in the shallows. Everett was in such a dire spot that he was willing to leave a half-million-dollar boat behind. According toIsabella, he had been bilking millions from Sable. The boat was a drop in the bucket compared to his full net worth, which was now all in crypto.
I slid open the cargo door as we circled the island. Although it had seen its fair share of use, the landing strip was in fairly decent condition. Faded and cracked, but no potholes. Somebody had filled previous craters. Patches of fresh asphalt dotted the tarmac. The renegades thought of it as community property. It was in their best interest to take care of it.
At the end of the tarmac, facing into the wind, was a sleek royal blue Eclipse Vision XT40 jet. With a carbon fiber hull, aluminum V-tail frame, and windswept lines, the light aircraft was perfect for hopping around the Caribbean on a whim. At $2.4 million dollars, it was relatively affordable as far as jets went. It was marketed toward the bottom end of the uber-wealthy—a far cry from an $80-million-dollar Slipstream G-750.
The XT40 was 32 feet in length with a 39-foot wingspan. Powered by an Eclipse Turbofan-400 putting out 2,000 lbs of thrust, the jet had a top speed of 368 miles per hour. With a range of 1,100 nautical miles, it could certainly get Everett out of our jurisdiction. It would take time to issue an international warrant. He could be in a non-extradition country by then, sitting on a beach, drinking piña coladas. It sure beat a jail cell.
The clamshell door was open. Everett and his goons loaded gear aboard the plane. The pilot was behind the controls, going through preflight checks. Exhaust from the jet rippled over the tarmac.
Our approach hadn’t been stealthy at all.
The rotor blades pounded the night air. It drew the attention of the goons on the ground. It didn’t take them long for them to aim assault rifles in our direction. Muzzle flash flickered, and bullets streaked through the night sky.
