green. “Enjoyed it!” he said.
Wheeler had found yet another double life to lead, one that paid very, very well, more than enough to cover any of Tammy’s activities. Sure, Honey, go to Lenox Square Mall in Buckhead. Take Cullen. Anything you want. Have fun!
Tonight Wheeler was on his fourth “mission,” and it was a big one. He had told Tammy he was going to spend a couple of nights in the Caymans and rest — and get something nice for Cullen — before he took off for home. Once he arrived at George Town and parked his plane, “Luis” met him and led him to a different King Air, one loaded with product worth over $100 million on the street. With a box lunch and a five-hour energy drink, he set off in the aircraft for a dirt strip along the Mississippi coast called Goombay Smash Field. He would abandon the airplane there — the cost of doing business — and “Rich” would pick him up, drive him to Diamond Head, and put him in a G5 for a sprint back to the Caymans. The morning sun would still be low in the sky by the time they landed back at George Town.
After a day of rest at the hotel, maybe a little senorita overnight, he would fly his own plane to Birmingham the next day for another hero’s welcome — and a $5 million payday. A yacht. Yes, a yacht would look good parked next to their condo in Orange Beach. He would go to Miami next week and make a down payment on a 53-footer. Once the purchase was sealed, he would make a house call on a former augmentation client — to perform an important post-op examination, of course. That client, and many, many others, inspired the name with which he would christen his new yacht: Two for the Show.
A sudden whoomm on his right startled him. He studied the eastern horizon but saw nothing but ghostly clouds overhead — no lighting flash. He held his gaze and strained his eyes for several seconds. Nothing. He wished this airplane, expendable or not, had weather radar in it and cursed the cheap screw narcotrafficales for not getting him a suitable plane for a long, overwater flight. Instead they had put him in this rattle-trap to save overhead dollars. He checked the INS and noted he was making 265 knots ground. The wind must have shifted to the east. And, for the umpteenth time tonight, he checked the fuel, doing a mental time-distance calculation.
What was that? he thought. A bird? Did I hit a bird? The airplane hadn’t twitched, so he reasoned it may have been an engine surge… but all seemed normal. There were no indicator lights. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, wishing he had a blow right now, and turned his thoughts back to Miami.