Chapter 37
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Miami, Florida
The helicopter blades chopped through rain and wind while rain hammered the windscreen in a downpour that made the world outside a gray blur. Inside the cabin, salt spray mixed with diesel fumes created a sharp, acrid odor.
“How much longer?” Lizzy’s voice was barely audible over the engine noise.
The aircraft bucked and shuddered. Each gust of wind sent them sideways before the pilot corrected course. The engine strained against the storm, the whine rising and falling with each thermal they hit.
“Twenty minutes, maybe less,” the co-pilot shouted back, checking his instruments.
Through the porthole, Flint watched the endless dark ocean below. Cuba was already long gone. No lights. No signs of pursuit. Just black water stretching in every direction.
Lizzy sat curled against the bulkhead. Wet hair clung to her face. She stared at nothing, tracking the cabin floor like she was reading invisible text written there.
“You okay?” Drake asked her, concerned.
She nodded without looking up. “Frankie got away. That’s what matters.”
Drake leaned back with his head against the cabin wall. Blood still seeped from his knuckles.
“That needs stitches,” Flint said, nodding toward Drake’s hand.
“I’ve had worse.”
The co-pilot checked his watch and shouted something to the pilot. Flint couldn’t make out the words, but he caught the gesture toward the fuel gauge. They were running close to the margin.
“Fuel?” Flint asked.
“We’re good,” the co-pilot replied. “But Miami better have a clear approach.”
Soon Miami’s skyline appeared through the storm like a mirage made of glass and steel. Rain still lashed the city, but the wind had calmed enough for commercial aircraft to resume operations. Jets taxied slowly across the tarmac, navigation lights blinking red and white in the pre-dawn darkness.
“There she is,” the pilot called back. “Coming down hot.”
“Copy that,” Drake said. “Hang on, Lizzy. Rough landing ahead.”
Lizzy seemed to barely register the words, but she moved into a seat and buckled herself in.
The helicopter landed at a private helipad near Miami International Airport. Wind and spray whipped across the concrete in unpredictable gusts that bent palm trees and scattered debris.
“Move fast,” the pilot shouted over the rotor wash. “I’ve got to get back.”
He kept the rotors spinning while they unloaded.
Flint climbed down first. His boots splashed in a shallow puddle that had formed beside the landing pad. The stench of fuel and vegetation permeated the air making it difficult to breathe.
“What a night,” Drake muttered as he climbed out.
His wet clothes hung heavy, and his face was drawn with fatigue.
Lizzy emerged last. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood in the downpour, looking lost. Rain plastered her shirt against her thin body. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks.
“This way,” Flint said, guiding her toward the waiting vehicle.
A black SUV waited near the perimeter fence. No government plates. No insignia. Nothing that would draw attention or invite questions. The driver took one look at them and unlocked the doors without a word.
“Airport Jameson hotel,” Flint told him, giving a silent nod to Gaspar who, as usual, thought of everything.
“Yes, sir,” the driver replied. “Picked up your go-bags from your plane. They’re in the back.”
Gaspar again. Always reliable and a step ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, they checked into the Airport Jameson Hotel. The lobby smelled of damp and cold recycled air. Overhead lights cast everything in sharp glare and dark shadows.
“Checking in for Smith, Jones, and Gale.” Names Flint had used before but would burn after tonight.
“How many rooms?” the clerk asked.
“Three. Side by side on the third floor if you have them.”
“Certainly, sir,” the clerk replied. “I have two rooms with a connecting door and the third on the other side, with a separate entrance. How’s that?”
“Perfect.” Drake paid in cash and added a bonus for the desk clerk.
The clerk slid the key cards across the counter without requesting ID or payment.
Drake accepted the keys and scanned for the elevator. “Any room service?”
“Twenty-four hours, sir.”
“Good. We’ll need coffee. Lots of it.”
Upstairs, the hallway stretched under lights that hummed like angry insects. The air-conditioning ran too cold. The carpet smelled like chemicals that no amount of cleaning could eliminate.
Drake opened Lizzy’s door first. He stepped inside and checked the bathroom, the closet, behind the curtains.
“Clear,” he called out.
Then he moved to his own room and repeated the process while Flint did the same with his.
The rooms were identical. Two beds, a small table, a chair by the window. Mass-produced furniture designed to be forgettable. The kind of place where people stayed when they needed a bed for the night between flights.
Flint handed a key card to Lizzy. “You’re next door to me.”
She nodded slowly. Her fingers closed around the plastic card, but she didn’t look at it. Didn’t ask how long they’d be staying.
“All clear,” Drake said once Lizzy was safely in her room. “No surveillance. No tails. Nothing suspicious downstairs.”
“For now,” Flint replied. “Cole’s people will find us eventually. It’s just a matter of when.”
“What about Frankie?”
“What about him?”
“He saw us take her. You think he’ll come after us?”
“Count on it.” Flint nodded grimly. “But first we get what we need from her. Everything she knows about Cole’s current operations. Then we figure out how to keep everyone alive.”
“You think she’ll cooperate?”
“She’ll have to. Her survival depends on it. So does ours.”
Drake studied Flint’s face, noting the cold calculation there. “Understood. I’ll set up perimeter monitoring from my room. Motion sensors on the stairwells, cameras on the parking lot feeds.”
“Good. And Drake?”
“Yeah?”
Flint said, “If Frankie shows up, we try to take him alive. He might have information we need.”
“Assuming Frankie makes that possible.” Drake nodded and disappeared into his room.
The door closed with a soft click that echoed in the empty hallway. A moment later, Flint’s door also closed behind him.
Flint peeled off his wet clothes and dropped them on the bathroom floor. They hit the tile with a wet slap that reminded him of helicopter rotors cutting through rain. His shirt reeked. He tossed it into the trash along with his other clothes.
He stepped into the shower and cranked the water as hot as it would go. Steam rose immediately, fogging the mirror and coating the walls with condensation. The water seemed to burn his skin as it rinsed away the salt, blood, and diesel that had clung to him since Havana.
He allowed the scalding spray to work into muscles that had been clenched too tight for too long. Luckily, he did some of his best thinking in the shower.
Lizzy Pace was the key to bringing down Devon Cole, but she was also a risk. Frankie would come for her. Cole’s people would hunt her. And she’d already proven she could vanish for decades.
This might be his only shot at getting the truth out of her.
A sharp knock on his bathroom door cut through the sound of running water.
“Flint!” Drake’s voice was urgent but controlled. “We’ve got company.”
Flint shut off the water immediately. “How many?”
“Four vehicles in the parking lot. Just arrived.”
Flint grabbed a towel and moved quickly. “Who is it?”
“Unknown. But they’re not tourists.”