Page 74 of Ground Truth

Construction workers were flown back and forth from Miami to the job site on Atabei daily, six days a week, until the mansion was completed. Early mornings, long and exhausting workdays, late nights. The hours and the project were grueling. Which fortunately left little time for the crew to become overly familiar with each other.

A man wandered past, and Drake gave him a friendly nod. The man didn’t respond.

Flint quickly counted heads. Fifty-two men milled about, shifting their weight, hands in pockets, waiting to board.

Flint and Drake were indistinguishable from the others. They sported the same heavy jeans and work boots and long-sleeved cotton shirts. The informal uniform of construction workers everywhere. They’d be issued hard hats, gloves, and other equipment as necessary once they arrived at the job site.

Flint and Drake stood on the tarmac waiting as the ground crew loaded cargo and supplies. Miami Marlins baseball caps were pulled low to shield their faces from curious stares and security cameras.

Clipped to the breast pocket of their flannel shirts was a temporary work badge. Each worker was identified with a photo, number, and job function. Flint was Biscayne Bay plumber number two. Drake was South Beach electrician number four. Their crew’s job was the installation of whirlpool bathtubs in three of the mansion’s guest bathrooms.

The project was starting today, and the entire crew of necessary artisans was flying to Atabei for the first time. Which meant Flint and Drake could more easily blend into the ten-man crew without being spotted as outsiders. Soon they’d trudge up the jet stairs and enter the cabin along with the others.

Flint wasn’t expecting trouble. Not here, anyway.

All workers were fully vetted and required preapproval. The counterfeit badges and accompanying falsified paperwork had been sufficient to get Flint and Drake a seat on the Atabei-bound Dash 8. The assumption made by the security team was that no one would be among the crew without approval. Which meant security was somewhat lax now.

Flint scanned the area and noticed nothing alarming. The mission seemed simple enough.

Blend in with the construction crew to gain access to Atabei. Once on the island, locate Dr. Stephen Brand. Confirm his identity. Interrogate him for intel about Greta Campbell.

If Greta was located on Atabei, find her and get her back to Houston to meet up with Hanna.

If Greta wasn’t on Atabei, then find out where she was and go there.

Flint was acutely aware there’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip. Planning and execution could be miles apart.

Two armed security guards had stationed themselves at the bottom of the jet stairs. The construction workers began lining up to board. They’d been told not to bring weapons. One guard wanded each man with a metal detection device. The second guard snapped a photo of the worker’s face and badge and required a thumbprint before he was allowed to climb the jet stairs and board the plane.

Finding a corrupt security guard who would pass them through without flagging their counterfeit credentials had not been easy. Without Flint’s covert connections, the ex-Mossad agents Hedinger employed would have been impenetrable.

Even so, the guards seemed nervous and especially diligent. The guard with the wand covered each man thoroughly before allowing him to pass.

“Hey, what’s the problem?” Drake demanded when he was asked to spread eagle for the third time. “If we had weapons that thing would be screeching loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Shut up.” The guard shoved Drake roughly against the stairs. “I’m not taking a bullet in the head because you’ve brought along so much as your favorite nail clippers. Spread your arms. Do it now.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man?” Drake whined and did as he’d been told.

Flint moved into line behind Drake and made a show of cooperating. Then he approached Peretz, the fidgety guard checking credentials and thumbprints.

Flint looked directly at the camera as Peretz pretended to snap his photo and offered the phone’s flat surface.

When Flint pretended to leave his thumbprint, he murmured, “What happened? Why are you guys so twitchy?”

“Hedinger killed one of the guards yesterday before he left,” Peretz replied.

“Why?”

“Failure to comply with security policies. We’re all on edge. Keep your head down,” Peretz explained under his breath as he waved Flint toward the plane.

Flint trudged up the stairs and ducked his head to enter the cabin of the Dash 8. Rows of seats, two on each side of the aisle, were almost full of tense construction workers. Overhead bins were closed. Oversize windows offered a wider view than many regional jets.

He followed Drake toward the first available row of empty seats. They settled into aisle seats across from each other, but they didn’t talk. The typical noise cancelling technology employed in the Dash 8 would have kept the cabin relatively quiet even if the workers were a chatty bunch. Which they weren’t.

The two security guards boarded the plane, closed the jet stairs, and sealed the door. The plane pushed back and taxied to the runway. Very soon, they were airborne.

Flint leaned his head back, lowered the bill of his cap, and closed his eyes. They’d been up most of the night working out the plan and he was bone weary. His concussion symptoms had improved, but the throbbing headache was still there. He’d stopped swallowing Tylenol every hour, but only because of concern for his liver. During the short flight, he hoped to catch a few winks.

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